


Welcome Home

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Awesome Greg Lestrade, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Brotherhood, Captain John Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drinking, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Mutual Pining, Mycroft's Meddling, Nice Philip Anderson, Nice Victor Trevor, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD John, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Protective Mycroft, Romance, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, Slow Burn, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-10-11 09:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 81,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: The year is 1945 and John Watson has just returned home from the war with more than his fair share of haunting nightmares. Suffering from PTSD and struggling with a terrible bout of insomnia, he longs to return to the stage to perform his jazz tunes. When a contest is announced for bands to write an original song in honour the returned soldiers and the end of the war, John assembles a band of veterans- including Greg, Philip, Sholto, and others- to win the grand prize.The circumstances under which he finds himself meeting Sherlock Holmes are less than ideal. Despite their unlikely meeting, the bond between them eases their respective adjustments to the post-war life.*THIS FIC IS TEMPORARILY ON HIATUS.*





	1. Just Like It Was Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, just home from the war, struggles to find work.

The second hand moved with the faintest of melodies that fell unheard upon John’s ears. The only audience for its tune was the furniture- an unappreciative audience. Rather than register the passage of time, John’s mind blocked the sound behind a thick door of thought.

_There is a train: it leaves the station at a quarter after five._

Any minute now, the alarm would clamour with chaotic commotion. It wouldn’t be necessary, but the alarm wasn’t programmed to sense whether it was needed or not. It would go off and John, already wide awake, would throw an impatient hand to shut it off.

_And it’s direct to Cardiff General from this hell hole._

He’d made one promise. One small, impossible promise. Victor’s voice echoed around his head until he was dizzy with it.

_Alright, Watson. Grenade on my go!_

How could he possibly honour his friend’s dying wish? How could he bring himself to face his wife, to relay his message of undying love, to offer support for her when he couldn’t even support the weight of his own memories? Somewhere in Cardiff, his widow mourned without the knowledge that her hatred for John should run fiery in her veins. 

_Go!_

His shoulder ached, his heart was heavy, and a bead of sweat travelled down his temple to moisten the edges of his hairline.

 _GET OUT_!

The alarm rang with vicious intensity, pulling John from the depths of his thoughts. After swinging one arm to silence the contraption, he dragged one heavy hand along his stubble-strewn jaw and contemplated exactly how many hours one could survive without sleep. Alternatively, how long could somebody survive with a guilt that crushed them under impossible pressure? One of those would surely be his undoing.

He got out of bed with a mechanical motion devoid of humanity, Victor’s blood still appearing before him in gruesome detail, and marched into the kitchen to stare at an empty fridge. He was grateful for the excuse to skip breakfast. There was no way to stomach a proper meal. Instead, he allowed the refrigerator door to swing closed and stood apathetically still. The floorboards were cold against the pads of his feet, the dim morning light illuminating only the vaguest shapes around him, the city silent with sleep. The silence pressed in on him, phantom explosions audible just barely beyond recognition and it was too much- too much.

Hastily, he flipped on the radio with the eagerness of a starving cat reaching for scraps of food. A smooth, low voice of an announcer filled the tiny flat and the background noise supplied him with the motivation to move once more. He escaped the drab kitchen to rummage in his closet, the radio growing soft from distance but remaining audible as he pulled a button up over gaunt, lifeless skin.

“-weather update, Susan. Now we have a special treat for everyone listening. Exclusively on KACL and for the first time, we are proud to air a special song to celebrate our victory. This one is for our beloved soldiers returned home from the war.”

The war was inescapable. The inside air was suddenly suffocating, viscous as molten lava and desperate to choke the life from him.

The singers chorused a cheery tune and the words were sickly sweet, killing him with boiling molasses. “ _The boys are coming home, the flags are flying high. And mom has baked her special apple pie. You hug your girl when you walk through the door. Before you know it, it’ll be just like it was before,_ ” they chorused.

Just like it was before. The war was over and now everything could apparently be exactly the way it was in 1938.

_GET OUT!_

With shaking hands, John pulled proper trousers over himself, tucking in the button up, collared shirt into the waistband. Barely keeping it together, he provided his beloved piano with one desperate glance. He could feel the keys under his fingers as though he were actually playing. He could feel the keys fall with melody and entwine to capture his life in enveloping bliss. Shaking his head to clear thoughts of the dusty piano, he escaped the confines of his temporary home to seek the sweet relief of the outside air.

John’s days were composed mostly of waiting. Today his distractions would carry him through the day until evening came. He bided his time in a bookstore, shooting guilty glances toward the owner every few minutes. The shop was ordained with a stunning, handmade sign that proclaimed support of the returned soldiers but he knew his service would have no real bearing on whether or not he was banned for loitering. Still, he risked it in the name of distraction in the music theory book he found.

He bided his time, the day stretching behind him, the end drawing nearer until the sun hung low in the winter sky. Only then did he permit himself to travel into The Crescent, lively and booming with energy. The source of its energy was entwined with the lively band releasing an arrangement of jazz melodies that intoxicated the blood in his veins. Gazing at the stage, he saw himself seven years previous, smiling under brilliant lights that cast harsh shadows as he sang his tunes to a full house. He saw the shadow of his past flicker across the stage, fading into nothing when reality caught up with him.

“Hey,” he called across the bar to a gentleman who was disproportionately bored regarding the stimulating environment around him. The bartender turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised in way of an answer and his hands continued to work at cleaning a crystal glass. “Is Al here?”

“Maybe,” he answered slowly. “Who’s asking?”

“Cap-” he started and the word stuck in his throat like a fly in honey. “John. Watson.”

He walked silently through a door that continued to swing rebelliously back and forth for too long after a body passed through it. John’s heart beat exactly ninety-seven times before a hand threw open the door once more to make way for not one body, but two.

“Good Lord, it _is_ John Watson!” Al shouted, nearly tripping over his feet as he shuffled to clap John lovingly on the back. His knees buckled under it, the pressure unforgiving against his still-tender injury. Al Hodges was the owner of one of the most successful jazz bars in Cardiff. A large man, his fashion was nevertheless impeccable with a finely tailored suit stretched across a robust stomach. He had a round nose with kind, sparkling eyes above rosy cheeks. “How long you been back in town, soldier?” Al’s booming voice was audible and distinct even above the music in the air.

“Just a couple of days, sir,” he muttered, desperate to avoid even one more discussion with any living soul about the God damned war. “The place looks great.”

“Ah, thank you,” he said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the compliment even as it brought a smile to his face. “And what do you think of the house band, Johnny?”

A more perfect opportunity couldn’t have presented himself even if he planned it. “I think you need me up there on keys, Al.” He forced a smile that was like a foreign virus on his face. Yet his charm was the only weapon he had in this war called civilian life.

Al’s face fell alarmingly fast, John’s words seeming an act of cruelty as a frown formed underneath those kind eyes. “Ah,” he said simply, his eyes moving rapidly from John to the current player and back to John. “Tell you what, kid. A friend of mine needs an accordion player for their wedding next month. You still do that?”

John fought the urge to scream and drag his nails against his skin. When he’d been seven years old, his parents had declared him a “prodigy.” He wasn’t, of course, but having a child prodigy had them feel special. In reality, John was simply musically inclined. He picked up the accordion and learned quickly, rapidly becoming more than adept at the instrument. He’d played weddings for years, including for Al and his wife, Molly. At nine, he’d then taken to the piano like a fish to water, the music alive within him. He’d stuck to the piano, continuing to learn until there was nobody better. But still, the ability to play the accordion lived within him.

“Er- a gig’s a gig,” he muttered with poorly-disguised disappointment. He was twenty-seven years old and now doing exactly the sort of performance he did at seven years old.

“I’ll tell him you’ll do it then.” John would have said something in the silence that followed those words cloaked in a disappointed tone but his tongue was too heavy to form any words. “Hey,” Al said quietly, hand on his shoulder once more. “Something will turn up, Johnny boy. Remember: the cream always rises to the top.”

Yes. The cream always rises to the top. But if nobody drinks it- if nobody knows it- it’s going to spoil.

* * *

“Another shot of whiskey. Please.”

The bartender silently obliged, a man whose face was forgotten the moment he turned away. John consumed the fresh liquid in an instant, wishing the dulled sensations could kick in as rapidly as he could drink it. He twirled the empty glass along the sticky countertop. The air was thick with sweat, the murmur of voices like a wall of pressure against his ears. It was too much, all of it.

“What division?” said a voice two seat to his right. John’s head turned to see a gentleman with short, cropped blond hair. He was staring at his own glass as bone dry as John’s.

“Sorry?”

His head turned then and John was startled by how handsome he was. He had a long, narrow nose, a pronounced jawline, short locks of sandy blond hair, and blue eyes that were hooded with intoxication. John had always been a sucker for blue eyes.

“You’re a soldier right?” he asked, eyes darting to the empty glass. “I was, too.” John said nothing but simply continued to stare at the man who seemed so much like himself if he were to be stretched taller and perhaps made a bit more handsome.

“Yeah,” he conceded after some time in silence. “37th division.”

His eyebrows moved together in thought. John had the impression that perhaps he’d reach his thoughts quicker if he were sober. “What is that- the Solomon Islands, right?”

“Yeah, and Bougainville.”

“Jesus. That must have been holy hell.”

John wiggled his glass as he caught the eye of the bartender to wordlessly request a refill. “Something like that, yeah.”

“How long ago did you get back?”

John considered the date, mentally scrapping for a rough estimate of how long he’d been back home. “Just a couple weeks.”

“Ah.” He considered this and John prayed that he would stay silent this time. “Are you going to school? Or going for cash?”

He didn’t particularly feel like explaining to this stranger that he’d already been to school. That he’d love to go back and get his medical degree but he couldn’t. Instead, he just grunted “Cash. I need the cash.”

“Well find something quick, pal. I’ve been to three funerals this month. Nobody’s talking about it because those guys came back fine a while ago.”

John’s stomach tightened, his mouth forming an impossibly hard line of tension. A fresh whisky was placed before him. He gripped the fresh glass until he was certain he could shatter it with his grip. “What happened?”

The stranger dragged his fingernails painstakingly along the filthy countertop, clumps of dried alcohol gathering beneath his already filthy, chipped fingernails. “They needed- They wanted a way to make it… stop.”

John threw his whiskey down his throat, suddenly desperate to get away from this horrible, suffocating prison. He threw down a note of payment, not even caring about his change- not even caring about anything at all other than escaping to fresh air.

“Find something quick,” the gentleman called softly behind him. “Godspeed.”

* * *

The Wallace wasn’t his first choice, but he was desperate.

“Our patrons come to hear classics, to shout requests. They’re not interested in original tunes,” said Mel Jackson with a dismissive tone that triggered an anger deep within him.

“I can play the classics,” he scrambled to say, attempting to smile with grace through a boiling sense of frustration. “I’ll take the slow nights, too. Or play during the day. Or-”

Jackson rolled his eyes and put his hand up to stop John’s pleading. “Watson, we just got a new headliner. The gals just love him, they call him “Babyface.” See, he’s eighteen and draws in the crowd- and what a crowd it is!”

“I’m certain I was playing circles around him when I was eighteen.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Well you’re not eighteen anymore, are you?”

The portion of him that was always so close to the edge took over, his mouth thrashing before his mind could prevent it. “Yeah, well some of us had a little service to take care of- a little war to fight. Maybe you heard something about it in the papers?”

An infuriating roar of laughed escaped his mouth and John struggled with every bit of self-control he possessed to prevent himself from throwing a punch. “Look,” he said in a stern but still engagingly amused tone, “we’re all grateful for your service. We are! But I have nothing for you here.”

He turned on the balls of his feet away from him and took one step before John threw caution to the wind and gripped him tightly by the elbow. He felt his fingers dig through layers of flappy skin before he got a grip on any bone or muscle.

“Come on, sir. I’m dyin’ here,” John begged, his eyes wide with an attempt to portray every sincerity. “The whole town’s giving me the same runaround; not a gig in sight. The only thing I live for is to play. If I can’t play… what’s the use of me making it back?”

The laughter was gone from Jackson’s face, but his eyes were hard against John’s pleas. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think? I’ve given you my answer. But you can try out for the community theatre guild- they’re down the block.”

With that, he ripped his arm from John’s grip and strode away with all the power and pleasure in the world while John stood helpless and miserable.

Five weeks. Five weeks of trying to find a job and all he had to show for it was two extra weddings that Al recommended him for. He was grateful for Al’s effort, but it wasn’t enough.

John climbed miserably through his doorway, his lonely flat offering absolutely no comfort. Instead, it was a harbour of insomnia, dangerous thoughts, and misery. He fell onto his couch, beaten with age and uncomfortable with lumps, and ran one hand along his face in exhaustion. The entire place was dark and swimming with a mélange of stench from the apartment above his own. He threw one hand to turn on the radio beside him to fill this space with something other than his thoughts and groaned soundlessly as the impossibly upbeat tune of “Just Like It Was Before” escaped the radio.

It played all the time. The tune was easy, he could have done better with it. Yet the song’s promotion of life’s return to normalcy was inescapable and a perfectly ironic background tune to his struggle. Surely he wasn’t alone. Surely the others were suffering. Surely even Victor’s widow-

No. Whisky. He needed whisky. He got up, thoughts of turning off the radio fading away with his desire to numb his thoughts. Scavenging the cupboards, he found merely one empty flask and one empty bottle, both mocking him with their broken promises. A final chord played with the cheery song when a low, soothing voice began to speak into the emptiness of John’s apartment.

“This is Andre Baruch for The American Songbook of Popular Music, brought to you by Bayer Aspirin. We’re are looking for a great swing band to write their very own song in honour of our boys in uniform.” John, whose ears hadn’t been particularly focused on hearing the words, suddenly perked up. It was the strangest of sensations, this total stillness as he intensely focused on each word floating to him from his radio. “Yes, it’s The British Songbook’s ‘Tribute to the Troops.’ One band from each county in Britain will compete in a preliminary round on December 16th. Each winning band from each county will then compete in a nationwide broadcast, live from London on March 22nd to determine who will appear in a spectacular new motion picture musical, and be immortalized in film history.”

The radio diminished to muddled murmurings. The whole world was edgeless, a shadow of itself as the world inside John’s mind churned with the beginnings of a life-changing idea. This was it- he knew it was. This was what he’d been waiting for, this is why the universe had been denying him everything he’d requested.

Swing. Create a song. In honour of the soldiers. It was John Watson to a T: musician, talented, soldier. The idea was forming more quickly than he could grasp it. The world was merely crawling around the sun compared to the racing thoughts within him. Andre Baruch might as well have proclaimed “John Watson: come and get your prize!”

He could see it as though a physical manifestation of his vision truly stood before him. He could write a song detailing the appreciation and adaptation of returned soldiers with both hands tied behind his back. He lived through the war. That was the difference between himself and the other contestants- his personal connection to it all. Somehow, someway, he needed to put together a band- saxophone, drums, bass, trumpet, and trombone- that also served in the war. That would be the key.

Every single member would be a military veteran performing a song about service. They couldn’t lose.

All this time, John had been searching desperately for one minuscule crack in the door that he could sneak through and this was it. Right behind this crack in the door was everything he could possibly dream of.

John Watson had plenty of talent and burning ambition. His songs were authentic from living through four years of hell. John Watson needed something to block out the memory and break this insomnious spell and here it was. His number one priority- his only priority- was to find a group of men who could do this with him.

Well... perhaps not his _only_ priority. Reality snapped painful back into place.

_GET OUT!_

The echo of war burst into the room, a cruel reminder that there was one thing- one impossible thing- to do first.

He must find Victor Trevor's spouse: Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray! World building! Hold on for dear life, folks. A slew of characters and literary devices will be introduced within the next couple chapters. I promise Sherlock is coming, fear not. (Also, in case you're worried, I promise this is **not** a gender-bend fic.)  
> This fic is based on the musical called Bandstand. While I recommend listening to it because it's AMAZING, I would not recommend listening to it unless you want this entire fic spoiled for you. I will post corresponding songs once certain plot points are covered. Also, I will be recording myself singing some of the songs along the way that you will be able to listen to if you so desire. :)  
> Comments are the light of my life and my whole source of motivation. Thank you in advance to every single person who does so. I will never be able to tell you how much they mean to me. <3
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr, if you fancy it:  
> [itsalwaysyou-jw](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com)


	2. I Know A Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In order to win the competition, John must assemble a band of veterans. Luckily, John knows a guy (who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for some familiar faces?  
> 

In order for this to work, they had to be soldiers. Every single note, beat, and rest had to exude from the talented souls of men who served in the war. He could only hope that Philip was still playing. Actually, he could only hope that Philip was still alive at all.

Philip Anderson was a friend of his from back in his school days who had enlisted around the same time as John following uni. Both incredibly skilled musician, the pair had performed together on more than one occasion down at The Tobago. The two men were at near constant odds with one another, but a kinship blossomed despite the unlikely odds.

It was the longest of shots, finding Philip at The Tobago after all this time, but John's mind was full of imagined reunions as he traversed the darkened streets of Cardiff toward the familiar club.

The doors swung open to present him with a cloud of thick air polluted with hot breath, smoke, and the stench of bodies. He was unable to keep his displeasure off his face but continued on, eyes raking every face in the crowd for a familiar chin, nose, pair of eyes, or hair colour that would stir recognition. A blaring saxophone resounded through the air, sound waves trembling with the intensity of the bursts of music. John's neck whipped around to locate the source of the racket, muscles protesting against the sudden motion.

The stage stood a distance away, a gathering of five rather bored-looking men performing wordlessly with an array of horns and rhythm. Standing to the left was a man with light brown hair that swooped back from his planed cheekbones and sunken eyes. A blue button-up shirt with rolled sleeves exposed the first few inches of his forearms, the buttons undone slightly to reveal just a hint of his chest. His eyes were distant while his fingers toyed with the saxophone in his hands with ancient, unthinking skill.

Philip. A wave of relief flooded John, exuberant joy that the man was alive and well and even continuing his career as a musician. For the briefest of moments, John forgot the duality of him; his ability to be both a great friend and an extraordinarily difficult man. It wasn’t that Philip was rude, but he was the sort of person to spoil a good mood rather quickly with his desire to always be right and follow the rules.

With the patience of a starving man awaiting dinner, John drummed his fingers along the wooden table he had seated himself at and eagerly anticipated the end of the band’s set. Time crawled so slowly, it was surely moving more slowly just to spite his thinning patience. After a small lifetime of waiting, the band finally made their way off the stage to a round of superficial applause from a distracted and ungrateful audience.

Throwing elbows when necessary, John wriggled through drunk imbeciles and the suspiciously quiet wallflowers in his haste. “Philip!” he shouted over the din of the crowd.

His head snapped toward the sound of his name, his eyes tight with suspicion even as he caught the sight of John's face working toward him. It was a full two seconds of analysis before recognition washed over him and a smile was spread wide across his face.

“Is that John Watson?” he called with a throaty laugh.

“That's Captain John Watson to you,” he said running the last few metres toward him with deep breaths.

The two clapped each other on the back in an embrace and grinned jubilantly. For one small moment, there was only the two of them, reunited after a long separation. Yet John saw lines on Philip’s skin that weren’t there before, saw the dulled light that used to illuminate his eyes, and noticed the hollowness of his cheekbones that exposed rapid weight loss. Their smiles fell in unison, each taking in the changed appearance of the other and recalling the cause of their separation in the first place. No longer were they starry-eyed boys concerned about book analyses or due dates.

“How have you been?” John injected into the silence between them.

“Well, how have _you_ been?”

The returned question impacted them both. An unspoken admittance of what was never supposed to be vocalized.

John released an uncomfortable cough because apparently there was nothing to do but pretend the horrors of the war didn’t impact him. “Nice gig you got here.”

Philip shrugged, eyes glued to the instrument in his hands. The room was milling with action and their ancient friendship felt familiar yet strange, warped by tragedy. “It pays well, I suppose. But it’s really just to get myself through school.”

Through it all, John felt the tug of a smile on his cheeks. “School?”

He looked up, then, eyes more alight than before. “Yeah, I’ve gone back to school.”

“What’s your study, then?”

“Law.”

John was laughing despite himself. Philip Anderson, the lawyer. It made perfect sense. He was always analytical, nit-picky, technical to a fault, and mistrusting to boot. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Good for you, mate!”

“Thanks,” he said shyly, a nervous smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. “What about you? Going to medical school yet?”

“Afraid not. I have something else in mind and- it’s actually what I’m here to talk to you about.”

His face fell instantly, forming a mask of impenetrable distrust. “What?” he asked flatly, clearly wary.

“Trust me,” John yearned, taking a step closer to his old friend. He sought eye contact and noticed something wary in Philip that wasn’t there before. He spoke quickly, words tripping over one another in an effort to get them out to his friend’s hesitant ears. “I have a plan: there’s this contest on the radio- a band competition.. A band from each county in Britain will be chosen to compete in London to perform a song to honour returned soldiers. The winner gets to be in a movie musical. I intend to put together a band of veterans, I know we can win.”

His words came out as more a plea than he’d intended but he allowed the raw emotion. He watched as Philip’s face processed the information, eyes searching John’s. “You want me?”

“You’re the best there is.”

Philip flushed with scarlet, his eyes wide in surprise. “It can’t conflict with my classes.”

“It won’t,” he vowed solemnly.

Consideration radiated from him for six seconds exactly before, miraculously, he said, “Alright. I’m in.”

John could have leapt with joy. He could have kissed him right on the mouth. He could have whooped and hollered and danced around. Instead, he settled for a wide smile and friendly clap on the arm for his friend. “That’s fantastic!”

“Who else you got so far?” he inquired, gaze dropping as his body turned to pack away the saxophone in his hands.

“So far, just you. I still need a bass, a couple of horns, and a drummer. You know anybody? Young, good looking- like us?” he said the last words at the ground, pretending not to notice his friend’s head snap up in surprise.

“It-It’s radio,” he stammered. “What does it matter?”

John took one steadying breath. “If we win- which we will- then we’ll be in the movies.” Philip simply grunted in response so he continued, “So you know anybody?”

A long moment passed in silence as his mind visibly churned in thought. “I know a guy…” he trailed off, remaining silent for so long, John grew uncomfortable, unsure whether he would continue or not.

“And?” he prompted after some time.

He heaved a sigh, clicking shut his case. “He’s a bass player. He was in the Army with me and he’s a better bassist than anybody when he’s not drunk- or high.”

“Jesus,” John muttered.

“Yeah. But if you can work with his addiction, I know a guy.”

John deliberated the benefit versus harm of an addict in the band. John wasn’t sober himself- which veteran was? There was only one thing that mattered. “Is he reliable?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s meet him.”

“You free tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he answered without thought. He was always free.

“Great.” Philip picked up his case and shrugged on a jacket, feet taking steps away even as he continued to speak to John. “Meet me at The Rio Lounge tomorrow around 1900.”

John choked on air, eyes widening with shock. “ _He_ _plays at the Rio?_ ”

His footsteps faltered, back turned to John for a long moment before he shot him a sideways glance and said, “No. He drinks there.”

* * *

The Rio radiated sophisticated energy, emitted the essence of success. The glowing billboard declared “Bernie and the Bellows EVERY NIGHT at 8” and John’s brain felt muddy attempting to comprehend the level of success that Bobby Soxers like that band experienced.

Philip was already there, his face morphed with the shifting shadows from wandering lights around them. John hadn’t any idea where they were going but followed Philip’s lead through the thicket of unconcerned patrons. They made a beeline to a bar that stood on the left side of the massive lobby and Philip’s hair was flopping back and forth from the motion of scanning the individuals around him along the way.

“Philip, you skinny son of a bitch!” came a laughing boom of a voice from somewhere to their left and both of their heads turned simultaneously to the source of it.

He was waving enthusiastically at Philip while his eyes slipped only momentarily to John. John was instantly taken aback by the appearance of the man. With peppered hair, a lean figure, and eyes that truly shone from within, he was more handsome than John could have possibly expected. His beauty was traditional, timeless, and complemented by a brown suit that hugged him in all the right ways. In one hand was a glass of amber liquid that danced around the cup with slight, unconscious motions. The other was gesturing the pair over and John’s feet travelled too happily over to the man.

“How the hell are you?” he continued booming even when the two were near enough to allow him to throw a friendly arm around Philip. “I haven’t seen you since ‘42.”

“It was ‘43, actually,” corrected Philip with something that almost resembled a smile. “This is John Watson, the man I was telling you about. John, this is Gregory Lestrade.”

“Pah!” scoffed Gregory with a wave of his hand at Philip. “None of this ‘Gregory’ bullshit, Phil. Call me Greg.”

John slipped his hand into Greg’s with a flicker of a smile and shook vigorously. The air between them was dense with the alcohol lingering on his breath but John couldn’t pull his hand away. He’d asked for a man who was good-looking and Philip certainly hadn’t disappointed.

“John made it through Solomon Islands,” Philip said when their hands finally fell apart. His eyes snapped suspiciously to the prolonged contact but said nothing beyond the narrowing of his lids.

“Ah,” Greg said joyfully, not a care in the syllable. He took one long drink from the glass in his hand before continuing. “I’ll tickle your catastrophe.”

“Oh yeah?” said John, curiosity mixed with a challenge in his tone. “Try me.”

“I liberated Dachau.”

He said it with a nonchalant finality, as though he’d simply relayed the score of a game John had missed the night before. John’s stomach dropped into a tight ball deep within him, his smirk instantly fading to give way to regret. He shouldn’t have challenged him. Greg remained unconcerned but John swore he saw the slightest tightening of his lips before he brought the glass to his lips.

“I’m- sorry,” John stuttered out, completely unable to convey how much he meant the two words.

“So Phil here told me about your band idea,” he announced and Philip shot a guilty glance to John for a reason he couldn’t fathom.

“And?”

“Colour me impressed, buddy.”

“Does that mean you’re in?”

“Yeah,” Philip chuckled with excitement in his eyes. “That means he’s in.”

John could have leapt with glee, hugged Greg until his eyes popped out, composed an entire opera in one night. “Great,” he said simply, cheeks tight with the smile that overtook his face. It was happening. “Now we need a couple of horns and someone on drums.”

He’d said it mostly for himself, but Greg lit up enthusiastically in response. Philip and John both looked at him curiously. “This guy I know is _great_ on drums! You guys will love him, he’s-”

“Did he serve?” interrupted John.

“Er-” Greg scratched the back of his neck slowly, eyes falling to the ground. “No, but-”

“No,” John said firmly. “No, they _have_ to have served. That’s the point.”

Greg sighed and rolled his eyes but remained jovially energetic. “Fine. I know a guy. Trumpet player.”

“And he’s good?”

“The best.” He released the words reluctantly and rolled his eyes, a strangely out-of-place sentiment for a man who’d talked about the liberation of Dachau without a care.

“Then what’s the problem?” asked Philip, the question asked with clipped words and an impatient furrowing of his brow.

“Let’s just say this guy isn’t any big barrel of laughs.”

John repressed the urge to roll his eyes alongside Philip. “It’s fine,” he dismissed. “Let’s meet him.”

“You’re a big enough barrel of laughs by yourself anyway, Gregory.”

* * *

“Who else would be on trumpet? I am _not_ playing second.”

“It’s just you,” reassured John.

Tobias Gregson was a massive fellow. With muscled arms and a wide stance, his intimidating appearance was made no better by the expression of bitter anger that was plastered on his features. He was probably, at some point in his life, a handsome man. Life had been cruel to the once pleasant features; his nose sat too close to his face at an unnatural angle, his left eye was limp with injured tissue, and his mouth was scarred on one side to lend him the appearance of a permanent scowl. Distantly, John wondered whether the injuries were a result of one incident or if the injuries were obtained during separate, isolated events.

Greg had agreed to take John to Tobias’ typical Friday night haunt and Philip had come along for the visit because, as Greg had said, “Johnny will need all the help he can get to recruit this guy.”

“And why should I do it, then?” Tobias challenged John, arms crossed over his chest.

Greg hadn’t been joking; to say that this guy “wasn’t a barrel of laughs” was an understatement.

“Because,” John said slowly while Greg put a hand over his mouth to hide a smile at John’s thinning patience, “we all need this.”

Tobias simply stared at John with a doubtful look. John sighed, his hands clenching to feel the hard nails sink deep into the skin of his palms. His eyes sought the floor, scanning for a pattern to fixate on while soft words slipped from his tight lips. “We need this. I know we _all_ need this. Because I need it, honestly. We may be different- Army and Marine, piano and trumpet- but we’re both musician soldiers who went through hell and were abruptly forced back into civil life and told that life would be just like it was before. We’re both officers who were given one purpose to fixate on and then were thrown back into normalcy without a purpose.”

“I need this,” John continued. “The reasons I need it are the same as yours- the same as Greg’s and Philip’s. We _all_ need this.”

Tobias stared at John for nine long seconds, his mouth working in minute motions to betray his processing mind. He looked briefly toward the other two men, who were staring at the floor but nodded their heads in agreeance with John’s words. “I can’t do it Tuesdays,” he said, speech thick with reluctance.

John’s heart elevated in his hollow chest, a warm sensation radiating from deep within some dimly lit place inside him. “You got it.” When Tobias simply provided a tense nod, John added, “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone- has to have served- for drums? Or trombone?”

Tobias’ eyebrows grew closer together in thought, a slight frown forming. “There’s this guy- trombone player- but he’s got a real bug up his ass...”

“Doesn’t matter,” John said quickly, wondering how bad the man was for _Tobias_ to think he was uptight.

“He’s the best there is. If you want perfect, I know a guy.”

* * *

John was alone this time, faced with recruiting this trombone player alone. Philip had returned to focusing on his law studies while Greg asserted that the bar needed his return. Tobias made no offer to accompany John on his recruitment but rather announced that he’d notify the trombone player and then send John a telegraph with information on where to meet him.

Apparently, he’d decided a meeting at his home would be most appropriate. John travelled the streets with only slight confusion due to less familiarity with this portion of town and, after a fair amount of walking, glanced once more at the paper in his hand.

_James Sholto_

_9797 Wyndham Place_

He checked the paper against the numbers on the building and felt his heart skip a beat when he saw, finally, the appropriate numbers on a modest house framed with delicate flowers and an immaculate lawn. After half-jogging up to the door, he threw his knuckles across the finished wood thrice, pulse racing through him.

The man who opened the door stood impossibly straight, his body aligned in a perfectly perpendicular angle to the floor beneath him. He was dressed to the nines considering the fact that he was simply residing in the comfort of his own home. John had the instant impression that this man would never be caught with a single hair out of place.

“Hello,” he said directly, flatly. “You must be Watson.”

“John,” he corrected passively. “And you’re James?”

“Sholto, please,” he corrected in return, his arm extending out to shake John’s with the precision of a Royal Marine.

Sholto ushered John into his home and offered him a cup of freshly brewed tea. Politely declining, he took in the state of the house he was in. Primarily white with accent colours of blue and grey, every single last item in the house was in its place. Every book on the massive shelves was organized and labelled like it was its own small library. Every utensil in the kitchen was placed in order of purpose and size. Every blanket was folded, every pillow fluffed and placed in rigid position. There was not a trace of dust in the whole place, the sinks even remaining clear of any build up.

They made small talk for the shortest of times, exchanging their branches and ranks. John was wholly unsurprised to find that his guess had been correct: Sholto was a Marine. However, he was also a Major. A picture on the mantle displayed a fairly pretty woman with two children beside her. Sholto confessed they were his children and John wondered why he sounded so distant about the fact. His words were not impolite, his body language not standoffish, yet John could read him as well as a novel written in a foreign language he didn’t speak. There was an undercurrent of Sholto’s withholding, but every soldier seemed to be hiding the depth of their suffering.

“You want to start a band,” said Sholto, finally. He didn’t beat around the bush and John could only give a sly smile.

“Yes, sir.”

“For the competition.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you-” Sholto said, more unsure than John had yet heard him, “-you’re the pianist?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are good?”

John smiled in earnest, staring into the blue eyes across from him with utter confidence. “The very best, sir.”

Sholto took a sip of the tea he’d made for himself, his eyes remaining utterly focused upon John, who refused to look away- refused to blink. “I will agree on two conditions.”

“Name them,” John ordered, willing to agree even without hearing them.

The needle skipped over the record that was providing the background music. Sholto shook with surprise at the abrupt imperfection. His face fell and eyes shifted to the record player. The words that had been about to escape him were temporarily lost as John saw the distraction take over his attention.

“That record doesn’t skip normally,” he said in a nearly apologetic voice. He was distant, and John shot an uncertain glance between Sholto and the record player to determine whether or not he was speaking to him. “I wonder how the damage-”

“Sholto,” John said softly. Sholto’s eyes slowly came back into focus on him but John knew the imperfection was still in his mind like a tick buried under his skin. “Your conditions?”

“Right,” he said softly. His eyes fell to the liquid in the saucer and he cleared his throat. “First, I need Tuesdays off. It’s the one night my family- It’s… our night.”

“You got it,” John said instantly, thinking of Tobias’ similar condition. “No Tuesdays. What else?”

Sholto’s attention suddenly honed in on John with an intensity that floored him, even shaking his sturdy confidence. “You must promise me,” he said sternly, “that this band will be what you told Gregson it will be. You are right, we all need this. It would be unscrupulous to obtain my trombone with the promises of brotherhood and purpose if you cannot keep said promises.”

It was quite the condition. To promise that _yes_ , this band will give Sholto purpose, _yes_ , this band will provide relief from the relentless struggles of everyday life.

“Major Sholto, I swear it.”

* * *

This was the end of the line. Thaddeus Sholto hadn’t a lead on a drummer for their band of soldiers. Al agreed to host the band for their first gig in two week’s time, but it would be a moot point unless they could find a drummer who served.

John pushed thoughts of the band to the very back room of his mind. What he needed to do now would require every last ounce of strength he possessed. It was no time to have any semblance of split focus.

“ _Johnny, I’ve got a special favour to ask of you_.” He could hear Victor’s voice in his head as though the man stood directly next to him, speaking to him in that carefree way he always did.

“ _Anything, Vick_.”

“ _If I don’t make it-_ ”

“ _Hey-_ ”

“ _Just listen, mate. If I don’t make it back home, I need you to- find Sherlock. I need you to check in to make sure everything is okay and I need you to give this to them._ ”

The note was heavy in John’s pocket, dragging him down through hell with its weight. A thunder clapped with an unreliable beat in John's chest. The ordinary door before him seemed an overwhelming obstacle to approach. Behind this door was every hardship imaginable.

John hadn’t the slightest idea what made him think that this was a possible task for him. He’d dedicated himself to simply doing it, but the idea of looking Victor’s wife in the eyes… of explaining to her...

Lead feet carried him to the threshold. Three breaths attempted to steady him, to centralize his thoughts, and his fist raised to rap twice on the door. It was the soundtrack of his anxiety, the trepidation of the knocks loud in his ears. In the silence following his knock, he heard the echo of the sound rattle in his mind and there was no breath or time or awareness- there was only an eternity of silent expectancy.

Footsteps.

A lock undone.

The rotation of the knob.

Only the paralyzing fear prevented John from escaping this horror.

Then, in a moment, a woman. Yet not a young, vivacious woman as he’d expected, but an elderly woman with short, curly hair, a pointed face, and kind eyes.

He was helpless to do anything but stare at her. His mind was weighing the probability of this being Victor’s wife- but surely she couldn’t be. He’d described her as tall with full lips, black hair, and brilliant eyes.

“Can I help you?” she asked, not unkindly, after several moments of loaded silence. Her eyes were constricted with curiosity, though John felt no hostility in the stare.

“I-” John was suddenly speechless. He’d simply assumed knocking would be the hardest part. This continued necessity of courage was drawing him from sanity. “I was wondering- is Sherlock Holmes here?”

“Oh dear, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment,” she said with her voice brimming with regret as though she hadn’t just set fire to John’s world with the smallest of strikes.

No. His mind rebelled against processing what she’d said. No. The world was spinning, the woman disappearing behind miles of blurred concentration. No. It couldn’t be. He’d misunderstood.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered with unadulterated panic shaking his words. His eyebrows were touching on another, his arm steadying him against the brick wall next to the door. “Did you just- Did you say ‘he?’”

Her eyes grew wide, her mouth open and she was clearly equal parts confused and alarmed by the aggressive reaction to have seized him. He watched as she visibly scanned him for hints of the situation, her mouth moving with silent words as she scrambled for the proper response.

“Yes,” she finally said with the note of a question in her voice. “Are you a client? Did you hear of him through his advertisement in the paper?”

Him. His. Sherlock Holmes. A man?

“Yes.” His throat was sandpaper, his muscles moving on their own to say the word with some ancient instinct to sink or swim in overwhelming information. “Can you tell me when h-he’ll be available?”

“Well he should be back- I’m sorry, are you quite alright?”

No, nothing was alright. “Yes. Please, when can I see him?”

She scanned his face for the context of his reaction but found none. Instead, she answered with impossible sluggishness, “Tomorrow. He’s available for seeing clients at 2.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” He was moving away and could no longer see her or the building or the street or anything in this world. All that existed was this endless dark tunnel and him, clawing his way out. His feet carried him down the street and he crouched down on the pavement when his feet were unable to carry him any longer.

What had Victor said? John wracked his mind, scrambling for the memories that were painful to recall.

“You got a girl back home?” John had asked.

Victor had smiled a mischievous grin and John had wondered why he looked like he had a secret. “I’ve got a special someone, yeah.”

“A wife?”

“We’re married, yeah.”

“What’s her name?” John asked, imagining what the Trevor household must be like outside the tragedy of war.

“Their name is Sherlock. Holmes- wanted to keep their last name.”

All the discussion of Victor’s partner and never once had he used any indication of gender. The conversations ran through his head on repeat in dizzying circles until John was mad with the repetitions.

How was this possible? Victor was married- to a man? How? But _how_? _How_ could they be _married_? It wasn’t legal to be gay and it certainly wasn’t legal to be _married_ to someone of the same sex. And Sherlock was… a man? But wasn’t Sherlock a girl’s name? He never had heard it, he supposed. A unique name for a unique woman, he’d thought.

That meant… Victor was… gay.

God. The hurt penetrated deep within him and consumed every trace of joy that remained in his wounded heart. How could Victor not have told him? He understood the dangers involved in revealing homosexuality in the military, but _God_ , they were best friends. He was John’s one shining light to provide him with guidance through hell.

But had John not reciprocated the secrecy? Was John not guilty, himself, of disguising his own attractions in men? He saw Greg’s face in his mind and hated remembering how he’d been instantly entranced and attracted to him. The thought sent stabs of pain along the lining of his stomach. Was his self-hatred for this portion of himself deep enough to have been projected onto Victor? Is that why he never confided in him?

John’s skin itched everywhere. He wanted to claw at every inch of himself until he bore the painful scars that he deserved. He longed to tear apart his skin until the pain inside him was free.

Instead, he pulled himself up, heaved a breath of frozen city air, and forced himself onward through the onslaught of pain. Ever the soldier, ever the war-induced clarity of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray! More world building! I'm so sorry to take you through 7.9k words without Sherlock but here he comes.
> 
> In regards to the liberation of Dachau (Lestrade's war-time trauma), you can learn about it [here](https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/dachau-liberated), but I must warn you that it's quite harrowing. I was positively nauseous after my research but it could provide character insight if you are interested.
> 
> Once again, thank you so much to everybody who is reading, subscribing, kudo-ing, and commenting. I appreciate and adore each and every single one of you. You provide me with endless motivation. 💖  
> Find me on Tumblr, if you fancy it:  
> [itsalwaysyou-jw](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com)  
> OR find me on Dreamwidth:  
> [itsalwaysyou_jw](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.dreamwidth.org)
> 
> Quick anecdote:  
> Me: spells it "Philip"  
> Grammarly: ACTUALLY, it's PHILLIP. Correct your spelling.  
> me: oh okay  
> me: spells it "Phillip"  
> Google Docs: ACTUALLY, it's PHILIP, you idiot.  
> me:  
> 


	3. A Promise Kept and A Promise Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is only eight years old when a boy named Victor Trevor suddenly enters his life.  
> Sherlock is only twenty-four years old when Victor suddenly exits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached Sherlock at last. For reference as the years change in this back story, he was born in 1920.
> 
> If you've read ACD canon, you'll be familiar with the idea that Sherlock doesn't always know _how_ he knows things. He reaches conclusions naturally and easily and sometimes struggles to explain how he made those conclusions. It's slightly different from BBC Sherlock, where his process is explained more clearly and he always has the process of observations to conclusions. This fic draws upon both methods equally but ACD canon is the basis for a portion of Sherlock's deductions in this chapter. :)

**1928**

The boys at his school were cruel. The classroom with white walls, one blackboard, and a suffocating lack of air was a cesspool of mockery that Sherlock shrugged off with an indifference that was wholly fabricated. Every day, he would shoulder the burden of being the class “freak” with a false calm until he got home and could lay in the comfort of his bed to curl in on himself.

Mycroft never seemed to suffer as he did and Sherlock would never be able to fathom how he simply shrugged off the jeers. His brother was a wall of cold, analytical indifference and he’d surely scoff at his baby brother if he saw the tears that fell from his eyes every night as he made no effort to stop them.

He wanted, more than anything else, to be like his big brother.

It was a cold, dreary day when Sherlock awoke, determined to survive one day of his life without being ridiculed. Today, he vowed to himself, he would go the whole day without speaking. He would not answer the teacher’s questions no matter how easy they were, he would not make observations about his classmates, he would not attempt to engage in “small talk,” he wouldn’t even greet those around him with a cheery “good morning” in a futile attempt to obtain their good graces.

The day started decently enough as he took a seat in the back of his classroom. His desk bore unsettling graffiti and he counted four- no, five- separate perpetrators. Making every effort to avoid staring at the defacement, he felt the vile words burrow deep in his mind, a dreadful virus penetrating his defences. Still, he kept his mouth shut.

Yet he was early and without his desktop to occupy his attention, he took to watching his classmates enter and reasoning how many hours of sleep they got, whether they shared a bed with a sibling (and if so- sister or brother? Older or younger?), or any other information he could accumulate based on the provided evidence. Anthony slept alone in a bed that was too big for him for roughly nine hours. Steve slept with a sibling- no, two siblings for four hours, but not consecutively. Margaret slept for seven hours with no interruptions but something delayed her falling asleep. Perhaps fighting parents? Perhaps discussing something of interest with her brother? Or perhaps-

But something stopped his train of thought in the sort of way that only one thing could: new information.

A young boy walked in with uncertainty in his every movement. His thick auburn hair was cut too close to his head with an uneven pattern and Sherlock knew instantly that the poor execution was a result of the cut being done by his mother- although it could have been a close aunt or perhaps a very good friend of his mother’s. His clothes hung like drapes on his thin frame with a too-big belt making the feeblest of attempts to hold up his trousers. This boy, this exceedingly pale and shabby boy, was new.

His senses were alarmingly sharpened. He was aware of the sudden hush that came over the room, aware of the flush that came over the boy’s face as he had to approach the teacher. Sherlock felt a strange pull of an unfamiliar emotion as the boy made his way to a desk to a chorus of murmured mockery.

“Look at his _clothes_ ,” whispered Norman to the girl next to him. Norman was a regular bully for Sherlock, but he felt a sudden rage that this mockery was redirected toward this undeserving boy.

Yet the teacher said nothing in regards to the new boy’s entrance nor in response to the open mockery that was occurring. Typical.

He could barely pay attention to anything at all, still hyper-aware of every eye glance, whisper, inquiry, and action regarding the boy. Through it all, the red-haired boy simply sat at his desk, stared straight ahead, and showed no hint of recognition of the whispers around him.

He waited until their first break and counted slowly to ten before rising and crossing over to the boy’s desk where he remained seated as their classmates shuffled off to enjoy the intermission.

“You know, you don’t need to feel bad that your mom has you re-use your older brother’s clothes,” Sherlock said timidly to the new boy, thoughts of his vow of silence long-forgotten. His head snapped up in surprise, eyes as wide as coins as he looked at Sherlock quizzically. “You also don’t need to feel bad that you’re not as big as your brother was at the same age.”

His mouth hung open slightly. “How did you know that?”

Oh, right. That might have only been obvious to him. Sherlock reprimanded himself internally, fending off a wince that wanted to occur in response to his careless choice to make such observations of the boy. So much for forging any sort of friendship.

“Er- nevermind,” mumbled Sherlock, his feet shuffling away in response to his brain’s demand to escape before he could be bullied again.

“No!” the boy shouted, rising from his seat as he smiled at Sherlock. He was missing several teeth and Sherlock made a note of which ones he thought would grow in first so that in several months, he could confirm or refute his hypothesis. “That was cool! Did somebody tell you that?”  
“N-no.” Sherlock flushed with the compliment, his response stuttering out without breath to steady the words.

“Whoa,” the boy breathed, eyes still wide and unblinking. “Amazing. How did you know that, then?”

Sherlock could have keeled over that very second and died a happy soul. It was, in fact, the very first nice thing that anybody besides his family had said to him.

“I- I didn’t… _know_ , exactly,” he managed to stammer out. When he received nothing more than a politely curious rotation of his head in response, he continued, “I don’t _know_ things about people, I can… see, I suppose. Like, when I look at you, I can see your clothes and the manner you wear them. I can see your behaviour and I can see your appearance. Through my ability to see those things, I can guess certain… facts that accompany the physical evidence provided.”

“Whoa,” he breathed again, eyes looking down at himself and then back to Sherlock. “Let me guess, then: you noticed my clothing was too big.”

“Yeah.”

“And you guessed that it meant…” he paused, eyes tightening in thought, “that meant they weren’t bought for me.”

“Exactly!” He was so excited, he accidentally shouted the word, even bouncing on the balls of his feet with the thrill of it.

“And if they weren’t meant for me… that means they were someone else’s.”

“Yeah!”

“But how did you know it was my brother?”

Sherlock thought long and hard about this question. The truth was that his mind worked so fast, he couldn’t always explain _how_ he reached his conclusions. But he wanted to make this boy- this kind boy- even happier so he attempted to reach through his racing thoughts and grab the one that reasoned why it was a brother.

“I suppose it’s just… the most likely explanation,” he stated with the inflexion of a question. “They’re clothes for boys. Probably not your dad because of the style of them- only a few years old- and it probably isn’t very likely that he would have kept clothes for so long. It could have been a friend, I guess, but still… brother is more likely.”

The boy smiled wide enough to strain his cheeks, shaking his head slightly. “That’s really impressive,” he said simply.

Never, in his whole eight years of life, had anybody told him that his ability to reason facts was cool. His mummy and daddy were accustomed to it from Mycroft’s ability. By the time Sherlock came, it was old news. His classmates were always affronted, his teachers angry, the whole world furious that Sherlock had the nerve to exist so intelligently.

“Thank you,” he said softly, trying to memorize this exact moment, this exact brand of joy that lifted his heart to new heights.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked cheerfully as the first student shuffled grumpily back into the small classroom.

“Sherlock,” he said, beaming. “What’s yours?”

“Victor.”

* * *

**1935**

Only through the existence of a friendship did it occur to Sherlock how sad he’d become in only eight short years of life. Overflowing with emotion and forced to repress every drop of it, he’d been more deeply injured and he knew.

Imagining a life without Victor was painful. He considered every cold, isolated, painful path his life could have gone done without him and he became more and more grateful every day to have Victor in his life. He was a shield against words of cruelty, a confidant for the doubts and concerns that crept along the edges of his mind. They were as inseparable as two people could be, the only source of companionship that the other needed.

One particularly lovely spring day, the two escaped responsibilities together in favour of the refuge provided by a serene pond. It was picture perfect with snow-white lilies blooming around the water, beautiful petals floating across the shallow water that reflected the brilliant shade of blue provided by the sky above them. The air was moving everything slightly to the left, carrying a light aroma of fresh lavender from somewhere nearby. Yet despite the almost unbelievable beauty of it all, Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of Victor.

Victor’s hair, shaggy and wild, floated with the grass in the wind. His eyes were sparkling just as the water did, pupils small with daylight and irises consuming the territory. He stared wistfully around the meadow and Sherlock stared wistfully at him.

Who can explain it? Who can say when it started? Perhaps that very first day. Perhaps it was one year later when Victor socked a boy in the face for telling Sherlock to jump off a cliff. Perhaps it started when Victor grew into his clothes and it became apparent that he was more handsome than Sherlock had ever seen. Or perhaps it started so slowly, there was no start at all. Perhaps it crept along so slowly, Sherlock was destined to look upon Victor’s beautifully angular face with a gut-wrenching pain and think “Oh. It’s you.”

If Sherlock wasn’t so accustomed to feeling a deeply-ingrained resentment for himself, perhaps he’d have the decency to feel a bit more shame about his feelings. But he was already a “freak” and could see no way in which his love for Victor made him any more of one. He knew what people would say, knew the law, knew he should _stop_.

But instead, he allowed it, even fostered the growth of it. Who was he harming, after all, besides himself? There would come a point, eventually, when Victor found a nice girl and settled down without Sherlock. The thought sent a stab of pain into his heart and he pushed away the image. Instead, he simply stared at Victor and imagined, for just the shortest of milliseconds, that Victor would turn to see Sherlock staring, realize what emotion was held deep within him, and embrace Sherlock.

The pair sat with their toes in the water, Victor wiggling his to create thoughtless splashes as the two fell into a comfortable silence and Sherlock could _feel_ the intensity of Victor’s thought process as though it were a physical wall pressing against him. He read tension in every muscle of his friend.

“What’s wrong?” asked Sherlock, words piercing through the dense cloud of silence surrounding Victor and his head rose slowly to blink at Sherlock.

“How do you know something’s wrong?” In way of response, Sherlock rolled his eyes and arched one eyebrow as high as he could. The result was an exuberant laugh from Victor that reverberated through his soul. “Oh, right. Stupid question.”

“So what’s wrong?”

Victor sat in thought for so long, Sherlock wondered if he was going to ignore the question. Yet his jaw tensed every few seconds and he continued to fidget with his hands and his toes continued their splashing in the water and he knew Victor was struggling to find the words.

“Is there anything I could say to you that would make you hate me?”

The question caught Sherlock completely by surprise and he couldn’t immediately answer. He thought about situations that were supposed to make people hate other people. He thought about the worst things Victor could do or say to him. Yet not one single thing stirred anything other than sadness within him and he knew the answer with absolute certainty. “No. There is nothing you can say to me that would _ever_ make me hate you. Ever.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Victor chewed on his tongue for a long moment, words caught in his teeth and desperate for freedom. Sherlock’s stomach was in knots, forbidding any new breath of air until he heard whatever confession awaited on the lips of his friend.

When the words came, they tumbled out like a river crashing over a waterfall. They were rapid and slurred and his eyes were deliberately anywhere but on Sherlock. “I don’t think I like girls.”

It was a freight train causing his world to teeter. It was an impossible hope causing his brain to completely shut down. It was a confession that surely exposed that this was all a dream, surely.

“Oh.” It was all he could choke out, so scared of sounding too excited, too scared of revealing himself.

“There’s more,” he whispered and Sherlock was certain he wouldn’t be capable of movement until he heard the rest. “I have a deduction.”

“What’s that?” The words were barely a breath of air and he was frozen with anticipation.

“You don’t like girls either.”

Sherlock swallowed, throat tight and scratchy. He couldn’t react, couldn’t say anything, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t, couldn’t couldn’t-

“Am I right?”

His fingers gripped a bundle of grass, blades removed the dirt beneath with ease. “Yes.”

“I have- Can I say one more thing?”

He could only nod in response, mind screaming at him to look at Victor and body unwilling to do so.

“I think I like… you.”

That did it. That broke the frozen terror that had seized him. His head snapped up to gawk at Trevor, eyes bulging with disbelief and a tremulous smile beginning at the edges of his mouth.

“Really?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out so high and shaky, but it had.

“Really.”

Slowly, millimetres taken at a crawl, he felt his body lean closer to his best friend in response to Victor’s own increasing closeness. The two were shaking, either from anticipation, fear, or any other emotion running rampant within them, and for the smallest of moments, before their mouths found one another, their eyes were wide open and observing the universe in each other’s souls. When their lips touched with the lightest of brushes, their lids fell closed and Sherlock’s entire stomach clenched into a tight ball that dropped straight out of his body. His mind went completely silent, wholly consumed by thoughts of Victor.

* * *

**1944**

“Is this a cruel joke?”

“No.”

The world was too loud. He could hear the churnings of the plates beneath him, the whooshing air as they spun in endless circles. He could feel the air pressing against him, could feel gravity pushing him down, down, down and it was too much.

The dimly lit room was suffocating him, the solitary light illuminating Mycroft with a darkness befitting of the demon he was.

“You _promised_ ,” he growled between his teeth. His eyes shut close to block out the overwhelming visual stimulus. Mycroft remained stubbornly silent and his silence was worse than a defence. “ _YOU PROMISED_!” he shouted as loudly as he could manage, his hand crushing the telegram in his hands. The telegram, the unlikely cause of his shattered heart and crumbling world, shook in his clenched hand. He wanted to turn the newly formed fist against his brother, but his body collapsed beneath him, no longer in possession of the strength it took to live.

“I promised I would do everything in my power-”

“How did it happen?” he interrupted, words trembling with his silent torment.

“We can’t say- for certain,” Mycroft said, with a note of uncertainty that was rarely found in his tone. Sherlock should have been more intrigued but couldn’t find a single reason to care. “He was in battle. We are fairly certain it was a grenade from the Japanese-”

A foreign wail of pain resounded throughout the room. Distantly, Sherlock wondered where the noise was coming from. Why did Mycroft halt his explanation? It took far too long to realize that the sound was coming from himself.

He had not the strength to stop the excruciating sob.

When his voice was raw, his energy depleted, the cold of the floor seeping through his trousers and into his bones, he sat motionlessly. He didn’t want to live on this wretched planet that no longer held Victor’s beautiful soul.

Time was inane. It could have been one second or seventeen weeks or ninety-seven years later when Mycroft crossed to the door to leave Sherlock alone- completely alone.

“I’m sorry,” floated his brother’s voice to his unreceptive ears before he heard to knob turn, footsteps retreat, and the door click closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sherlock. :(  
> I got attached to Victor while writing this and then I cried when I wrote that last bit.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I adore you all! <3


	4. One Thing In Common

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been more than a year since Sherlock received the telegram announcing Victor's passing but the loss still hurts as though it's a fresh wound. Sherlock hopes the client that is coming at 2:00 will distract him from some of the painful memories but that plan crumbles when the "client" named John Watson admits that he used to know Victor.  
> And he isn't empty-handed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're all in agreement that Sherlock is only the way he is (distant, cold, mean, etc) because he grew up isolated with only Mycroft as a role model, yeah? Therefore we can agree that, if Sherlock was shown love, acceptance, and friendship from a young age, he wouldn't be so bitter, yeah?  
> That is the presumption that this fic uses. He is still Sherlock for sure and Victor's loss does set him back a bit. But he's not quite so broken and he's a bit more patient.
> 
> We're still in Sherlock's POV for this one. Enjoy!

“What do you mean ‘peculiar?’”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Hudson fretted uncertainly. “He almost seemed surprised to find himself at our door.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and repressed the urge to roll his eyes. She didn’t deserve it. She couldn’t read minds. But surely she understood that she couldn’t start a conversation with the words “A very peculiar man came around yesterday evening looking for you” and not explain herself.

“A client?”

She thought for a moment. “I’m assuming so. I told him you would see him at two o’clock today.”

He wanted to drill her for more information, wanted her to walk him through the conversation that transpired, but knew it would be pointless. When Mrs. Hudson was perplexed, her brain became incapable of creating memories. Instead, she would become so focused on making sense of the situation, she lost all sense of longevity. It wasn’t her fault.

“Thank you,” he said simply, making a note to pay special attention to this client’s behaviour in the event it proved more critical than verbal communication.

He took in a steady stream of air, letting the mingling dust mites floating around into his lungs. He imagined he could feel the air expand his whole body until he was lighter, temporarily free from the ever-present weight that had settled over him. He imaged the air expanded him enough to break the cage he’d been placed in. When he couldn’t take in breath any longer, he held it- held it until he was burning with it. When he released the air at last, he resented the hollow sensation that settled over him.

What is a person who had built their world around one solid foundation supposed to do when the foundation vanishes?

Crumble.

A case. He needed a case.

“Did anybody else answer the advertisement?” he called with an edge of panic creeping in through the cracks of each syllable. His voice carried through the desolate room, ricocheting to where the words would reach Mrs. Hudson’s ears. 

“There was a woman,” called Mrs. Hudson back from the kitchen. Metal fell upon glass and he knew she was placing down her spoon upon the saucer. “She was rather secretive, insisted she couldn’t divulge any information about herself or her case unless she could speak to you directly.”

A woman. A secret. Needing Sherlock.

“What did you tell her?”  
Mrs. Hudson popped her head back through the doorway and looked at him with exasperation in her eyes. “I told her the same thing I tell them all, my dear.”

“Right.” Sherlock stared at one piece of the rug beneath him until it was vibrating in his vision.

“Isn’t that rather painful?”

Her voice ejected him from his spiralling thoughts, surprising him into looking away from the rug and toward her with a question in his eyes. “Isn’t what painful?”

She nodded gently toward him, her voice minuscule as she said, “Wearing it.”

He stared down at his left hand. Somehow, through it all, he hadn’t been aware of his right hand working the ring in anxious circles around his finger. He hadn’t noticed he was fidgeting with the thing. Breath hung motionless inside him from a sharp intake of breath, hands frozen in an exhibit of their motion.

“No,” he said, finally answering her question, though unable to look away from the metal band. “It would be painful not to wear it.”

Three hundred and ninety-seven days was a long time to spend in crushing grief. Nine thousand five hundred thirty-six hours was an eternity to live without a person who’d been a fundamental piece of his life for seventeen years. There was nothing at all in this world that could have prepared him for the loss that shredded his entire being down the centre. Now there was nothing that could encourage the removal of this symbol of who he used to be.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson offered timidly, approaching him with a cuppa in her hand prepared exactly as she knew he liked it.

“Hmm?” he hummed in way of response.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He refused her gaze, maintaining his sight upon a discoloured patch of brick on the mantle. His mind was simultaneously bursting with thoughts- far too many thoughts- and also somehow capable of only one repeated thought.

“No,” he lied with a shrug. “I just… want to know what happened.”

She pondered his words seriously for a long moment, her face a perfect mask of thought and concentration mixed with the dreaded pity that overwhelmed the face of everybody- well, everybody who knew the truth- ever since it happened.

“What do you think that will achieve? Finding out the truth… will that make you happy?”

He flinched from the words as they caused a sharp stinging pain in his stomach. The insinuation that discovering how his husband had died would make him happy was an insult. He bit back his retort, the ghost of Victor whispering in his ear, “ _ You can’t get mad at people for not understanding if you don’t take the time to explain it to them _ .”

God, it hurt. It hurt to hear him. It hurt to remember him. It hurt. Everything hurt.

He took a deep breath, a futile attempt to steady the nerves that were scattering recklessly through him. “No, it will most certainly not provide any level of  _ happiness _ . But it might… I have to believe it will… provide closure.” She tilted her head in a manner that made him shrink within himself. There was a level of pity directed toward him in the look that truly felt like degradation. “That’s the best case scenario, isn’t it? That’s the best I can hope for at this point; closure.”

* * *

1:56 P.M.

His knee bounced with anticipation. Mrs. Hudson had told the client to come back at 2 P.M. Would he be criminally punctual? Or, more likely, tardy due to nerves or poor planning or (in Sherlock’s opinion) sheer disregard for the value of other people’s time?

1:57 P.M.

What sort of case would be presented to him? Murder? Stolen Money? Suspected infidelity? Anonymous threat on his life?

1:58 P.M.

Sherlock reviewed his story in the event that the ring on his finger came up. He’d nearly perfected it; the story welcomed very few questions and also resembled the truth just enough to relieve the guilt caused by lying about the love of his life.

1:59 P.M.

_ My late wife was a nurse in the Pacific, she passed away in an unfortunate incident wherein she found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. _

2 P.M.

The second hand passed the dot, his heart contracting with anticipation with every millimetre it moved past the 12.

Then, miraculously, the second hand passed the four on the face of his ancient clock and a trepidatious knock resounded around the flat from the front door. There were three precise knocks, indicative of an individual here on business- not a knock of panic or urgency, but a knock of duty and preparation. Sherlock’s toes wiggled with delight, hopes elevating that the case would be one of interest, after all.

Mrs. Hudson’s feet crossed to the doorway, Sherlock remaining seated in the common area as he heard the turning of the knob and the swoosh of the door opening.

“Hello again, dear,” she greeted cheerily.

“Morning, ma’am.” His voice possessed a low timber, words polite but tone tense with what sounded like anxiety.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Much so, ma’am. Thank you.” He heard his feet shuffle in, gait hesitant. “Should I-”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Hudson assured and Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion before she continued, “Keep them on, it’s not necessary.”

Ah. His shoes.

A polite man, concerned with the traditions of others and active in his effort to align with the rules and customs of others.

“Thank you.”

“You can head on up those stairs, he’s expecting you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Two pairs of footsteps arose into action then, Mrs. Hudson’s fading into her own flat and the client’s growing louder as he traversed the stairs with determined, rhythmic steps. Finally, Sherlock arose from his seated positions, briefly adjusted the hem of his sleeveless jumper, and prepared himself to greet his guest.

When the gentleman came into view, everything around them slowed down, the world halting between them until it was frozen, the pair of them frozen along with it.

There was an air about the man that took Sherlock so wholeheartedly by surprise, he barely recognized the emotion. But yes, surprise was surely the source of his suddenly racing heart.

He was a young man, certainly a couple years older than himself but nevertheless as spritely and handsome as a gentleman he’d once seen in an MGM film. He carried himself with an easy grace that was not diminished by the rigidly straight posture he possessed- a soldier, clearly. His fashion was admirable yet spoke volumes of his employment: a simple off-white button-up with rolled sleeves to display his forearms was tucked into trousers that were held up by a pair of simple, black suspenders. The trousers were themselves also black and accented his build quite well, rising above his waist and cinching stylishly in pleats. It was a simple look that was nevertheless an ensemble put together by somebody on a budget. He could see where the trousers were recently spot-cleaned, indicative of the need to maintain the pants in a hurried fashion, likely because they are one of the very few pairs he owned- if not the _only_ pair he owned. 

His entire build was one of a broad man forced to lose too much weight far too quickly. It was the look many soldiers had but not all were quite so obviously famished. His skin was tight across a strong jaw, cheekbones angular to provide a dip into hollowed cheeks. His eyes were a bright blue and green around darker centres, pupils wide in the relatively dim room and his hair was a mess of dirty blond, clearly grown for several months from the traditional military cut.

Sherlock would put this soldier’s return around four months ago, possibly as a result of the victory over Japan that occurred that same month, though it may have been a coincidence.

Yet none of these observations was the cause of this complete halt of motion in the centre of his sitting room. None of these simple facts was enough to cause Sherlock’s complete unravelling. Instead, he found himself at a loss of words, brain a swirling mess of confusion because of the manner in which this man looked at him.

The man stared at him with a mixture of alarm, confusion, understanding, admiration, and wonder. His emotions danced across his face as though they were a ballet to admire. The man’s eyes danced across Sherlock with dazed intensity, moving to his hair, his lips, his cheekbones, his tall stature, and settling on deliberate, unblinking direct eye contact that was not entirely common between two strangers who had yet to say a single word to one another.

It was the manner in which this stranger appeared to ogle at his existence that caused his world to freeze. It was the overwhelming sensation that, somehow, in some way, he knew this man. Or this man knew him. Or he should know this man. Or-

“Hello,” said the man before him, voice infinitely smaller than it’d been while speaking with Mrs. Hudson. The word should have shattered the dream-like disconnect that had settled over them the moment they’d laid eyes on one another. Instead, the single word spun around his head as though he was drunk on it.

“Good afternoon,” he replied, attempting to adopt a natural tone.

“My name’s John Watson,” he said stiffly, his body betraying the slightest of flinches as he said his name, yet the source of such a reaction was lost on Sherlock.

“Nice to meet you,” he responded, offering his hand and he wondered why- _why_ \- was John scrutinizing his reaction so intently before he extended his arm in return?

“Let’s take a seat,” Sherlock offered politely, slipping his hand out of the shake to gesture toward a seat he’d purchased for clients after Victor-

He gulped against the thought, urging his mind to remain focused on the matter at hand.

“Thank you.”

They sat down, John lowering himself slowly as though unsure whether or not the chair would hold his weight.

“So,” said Sherlock with every effort to inject confidence into his words, “You’ve been back from the Pacific theatre for four months and now you find yourself in need of my services. Can I assume your problem has roots in your service somehow?”

John’s head snapped up to stare at Sherlock so aggressively, his neck surely must have ached with the motion of it. His eyes were as wide as the empty saucer beside Sherlock, full of wonder and Sherlock fought back a smug smile of satisfaction. His well-reasoned guess had been correct, apparently.

“So you  _ do _ know who I am.”

It was no easy task to confound Sherlock Holmes. It was not a simple job to cause his mind to reel, his brain to rapidly alter directions so that it dazed him. Yet John Watson was in his life for less than two minutes and already he’d managed it twice. He was accustomed to individuals gawking at his abilities and more than used to people accusing him of spying or previous research when he made his deductions. Yet the inflexion of the phrase “you  _ do _ know who I am” insinuated that John had initially thought Sherlock might already know who he was.

He narrowed his eyes in confusion, eyes darting to the side in thought before returning to him. How was he supposed to know John?

“No, I’m afraid I do not.” John slumped slightly, a gust of air escaping through open lips. “I’ve reasoned your service and amount of time back in Wales based upon your appearance.”

“Oh.” The sound was distinctly disappointed. John stared down at his hands, as though indignant at them for revealing information behind his back. “Well, that’s quite impressive.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock responded, biting back the urge to flaunt a cocky “I know” in response.

He continued, “That’s why, whatever your problem, I am confident I can assist you with the recollection of facts and reach a conclusion to the situation.”

In a picture of deep confusion, John’s head turned to the side, examining Sherlock as though he were a strange puzzle he couldn’t begin to imagine how to solve.  _ Why _ was this man so confused? What information was Sherlock missing here?

“Did you or did you not arrive here in response to my advertisement in the paper?” spat Sherlock, bubbling anger getting the better of him in response to the growing self-doubt he was experiencing. It was an emotion he was ill-equipped for.

John diverted his gaze to a fixed point just to the right of Sherlock’s head. He gulped heavily, hands linking together in a grip until his knuckles were white with the pressure.

“I did- did not.”

“Then how did you come to find yourself here?” Sherlock couldn’t piece it together, needing to understand, needing this to make sense.

John said nothing, lips working in anxious patterns, teeth surely biting through the bottom lip. Silence stretched on and on around them, the anxiety from lack of understanding building to dangerous levels inside him.

“Mr. Watson,” he prompted when a solid minute had passed in silence. “Why are you here?”

John’s eyes rose to Sherlock’s, shining with moisture that hadn’t been there before, though no tears were present. He took a long breath, exhaled, and broke his silence.

“I knew Victor.”

It should have all fit together. It should have been like placing the final piece in an otherwise completed puzzle. Instead, it was like a slow-motion scene of horror that worked to anxiously throw puzzle pieces where they didn’t belong. His heart was pounding, reminding him that he was painfully alive and here was a man who dared- who  _ dared _ -

“Why are you here?” he demanded. His voice was cold, words clipped, and suddenly he didn’t want the answer even as he asked it.

“I- He- Before we- Back when- He asked-”

“ _ Why are you here _ ?” he spat, voice doubling in volume and the room was too hot, his heart too loud, it was too much.

“He asked me to give you this,” John said hurriedly, his entire body trembling as he reached into his trouser pockets and offered a folded envelope to Sherlock. Its creases were defined, worn down. It had been folded and unfolded many times, though the wax seal remained in tacts with no signs of reapplication.

He took it viciously, hungrily, forcefully from John’s hands. Grasping it with enough force to shatter glass, his eyes fell closed and he imagined he could feel Victor- could feel the lingering warmth of his touch upon the paper, could feel the love radiating from it. This was the very last remaining love he’d ever feel from his late husband.

Tear strung the backs of his eyes and he so desperately wished he could be alone.

“Why didn’t he just send this in the mail?” he uttered so softly, the words were dust on the air.

John’s words were shaking when he answered, “He said- said it was important. Couldn’t trust the delivery service.”

“But he entrusted it to you, a man who continued to serve in a war for upward of a year after he-” the words were stuck in his throat and he knew that if he released them, his tears would flow unbidden.

John nodded, his mouth trembling violently. “Yeah. He-” He stopped, balling his hands into fists with incredible pressure. “He said he trusted me to make it- to survive and give it to you.”

Whoever this John Watson was, Sherlock had almost certainly underestimated him. “You were close.” John simply nodded, his eyes connecting with Sherlock’s for only a moment before falling to his hands. “Friends?”

“He was the best friend I’ve ever had,” he whispered.

They had that in common. Sherlock’s heart was heavy in his chest, radiating a pain he’d not felt so acutely in several months. Oh, how easily this wound was opened to expose fresh waves of torture.

“I must confess,” John injected into the silence that had settled around them, “for the sake of my sanity, one more thing.”

“Please continue, then.”

“I thought- I rather thought you would be a woman.”

Thrice. Thrice this man had confounded Sherlock. More than any other individual had in his entire life.

“And why, pray tell, did you think that?”

The note was heavy where it remained in his right hand. He fought violently against the overwhelming desire to rip it open that instant and read the message over and over and over and over until every curve of every letter was burned into the anatomy of his brain.

“Because,” John said slowly, and he was more anxious now than Sherlock had yet seen him, “he confided in me that the two of you were married.”

Sherlock flushed a vibrant scarlet, mind processing too quickly to have even one coherent thought. “He told you what?”

“He shared with me-”

“I heard you!” he shouted viciously, rising to his feet, desperately seeking a manner in which to succumb into nothing- to escape. John was flabbergasted, uttering nonsense words of attempted apologies. “Who have you told?” he shouted, panic rising to uncontrollable levels.

It would be all over. His reputation, his brother’s control of the situation- it would all fall apart if John told the wrong people. God, what was Victor thinking, going around telling people? And  _ soldiers _ , nevertheless. He gripped his curls tightly, wanting to crumble.

“Nobody!” stuttered John with an alarm in his manner that matched Sherlock’s. He rose to his feet as well to match the energy that Sherlock was emanating.  “I haven’t told anybody. I swear.”

“Why should I believe you?” he bellowed, crazed with worry.

“Because Victor was my  _ best friend _ ,” John shouted, an edge of fury in the words that punctured Sherlock’s frenzy. He said it with venom, with self-defence, with anger, and with authority. “We went through hell together, we protected each other, we were  _ brothers _ . I had  _ nobody _ after he died. Only the promise I’d made to him that I would live to deliver that note to you kept me alive. I was  _ shot _ in battle and you want to know something? I was relieved. I was overjoyed that I had a reason to let go. I felt like the luckiest son of a bitch on Earth to have been shot and I welcomed the end of the line. But you know what? I crawled my way through the battlefield, fought my way to life, and never gave up trying to survive because Victor told me I  _ had _ to live to give you  _ that _ note.”

His eyes were shimmering with moisture, the tears gathered but refusing to fall along his stubble-strewn cheeks. He was pointing angrily at Sherlock, his emotions at a dangerous peak.

“I-” Sherlock couldn’t say anything. He wanted to apologize for his behaviour, wanted to thank him, wanted to say something-  _ anything _ -

“You want to be mad at me for being someone that your husband trusted? You have a lot of reasons to be mad at me, but you would be wrong to be mad at me because Victor told me the truth. I’m glad he told me the truth. You know why? Because I don’t care. I don’t care that he was gay, I don’t care that you’re gay, and I don’t care that you were married. I loved him like a brother. It surprised me but it doesn't matter to me. And I haven’t told  _ anybody _ . So take the bloody note if you want it, but just know the only reason you have it is because Victor trusted me with the truth. And I would never defile his memory by breaking that trust.”

One rebellious tear escaped through the side of his eye. He breathed through his slightly-open mouth, likely due to the inflamed sinuses from his conjured tears. 

“I’m… so sorry,” Sherlock said softly to the ground. He couldn’t look at John, couldn’t face the source of shame that burned him from the inside. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I am… more grateful than I can express that you’ve made it back to relay this last message.”

John nodded stiffly, the pair of them standing frozen in tense, eternal silence. They stood in silence for so long, their respective minds wandering, Sherlock couldn’t begin to estimate how long the silence lasted. Eventually, John released a sigh that was heavy with emotional exhaustion.

“I better get going.” He turned without another word and he was nearly through the doorway before Sherlock found his voice again.

“Wait!” John stopped and turned his head slightly, though didn’t turn around. “Thank you. Is there anything- Is there any way that I could possibly repay you?”

John shrugged, turning slightly more toward Sherlock and the emptiness that he saw in those eyes was a painful sight to behold. “Not really.”

“Please,” Sherlock begged, hoping to alleviate the guilt in the pit of his stomach. “Just name it. Anything you need.”

John considered the proposition, eyes lifting to the ceiling in thought before he shrugged, eyes returning to Sherlock. “There’s really only one thing I need right now, but it’s not the sort of thing you could help with. I’ll let you know if-”

“What is it?” asked Sherlock eagerly.

“Oh, no it’s not-”

“Try me.”

The challenging tone in his voice put the slightest of smiles on John’s face. “Alright,” he conceded, turning fully to face Sherlock once more, though the distance between them was more significant than before. “I have a band of veterans and we’re trying to win a contest. We’ve just started and we have a gig in less than two weeks. I’ve got a couple horns, a bass, and myself on keys. But I still need a drummer- no, an  _ amazing _ drummer who has  _ also  _ served.” His eyebrow arched to challenge Sherlock to rise to the occasion.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped. “A veteran drummer?”

“Yep.”

Despite it all, a smile almost threatened the edges of his lips. “You’re got going to believe this, but I know a guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean I'm not saying I cried again while writing this chapter but... I mean... I definitely did.  
> (Victor meant so much to both of them and I didn't expect that realization to be so sad.)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading. I sincerely value and adore every single person who has read, subscribed, kudo-ed, bookmarked, and all those lovely things. <3
> 
>  
> 
> (ALSO, a technical note: I have done extensive research in preparation for this fic. A portion of my research focused on terminology for gay people in the 1940s. According to my research, [around that time, “gay” was used to mean “homosexual” in the United States but the term wasn’t popularized in Britain until the 1950s.](http://rictornorton.co.uk/though23.htm) That being said, I am going to use artistic freedom going forward in this fic because I am deciding not to use any of the terms for gay people that were common in the 1940s in Britain.)


	5. Love Eternally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reads the last letter he'll ever receive from Victor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof. This chapter is just pure angst but I brought up the letter so I must reveal what was in the letter. I mean, telling the audience about the existence of a letter and then not telling the audience what's IN the letter would just be lazy writing.  
> (👀looking @ you, series 4👀)

_My dearest Sherlock,_

_If you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m more sorry than you will ever know. I never meant to leave you. When I stood before your brother and swore “until death do us part,” no portion of me imagined that it would happen so soon._

_I need you to know- really know- how much I love you. If you never hear me say those words again, I need you to understand how deeply I love you._

_I love you like fire loves oxygen as its life source._

_I love you like waves love the shoreline, an eternity spent shaping one another._

_I love you like a lawyer loves the law, a lifetime dedicated to knowing everything there is to know._

_I love you like the stars love the moon, their existences entwined and picture-perfect._

_I’ve loved you, I love you, I will always love you._

_I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you._

_And if these are the last instances you’ll ever see of this apex truth, I need you to forgive me: forgive me for leaving, forgive me for not writing more often, forgive me for passing._

_God help me. This is hard. I’m sure you can see the trembling letters and I’m sure you already know the trouble I’m having. You’re so brilliant. I love you. I will never understand how I became so lucky as to find you._

_I love you._

_If something happens, I know you will read this. Because I’ve entrusted John._

_Ah. Another thing I hope you can forgive me for. John._

_John Watson is a good man and a good friend. I trust him with my life- and I do, in fact, trust him with my life every day. Yet I haven’t told you of him for reasons that are both complex and incredibly simple. That reason is: I know you. I know how desperately you need to avoid envisioning me here- in combat. I speak to you of my thoughts and dreams because those things keep you safe from the reality, which is… worse. I don’t tell you of my brothers in combat, or of how much weight I’ve lost because I know how it will hurt you._

_I don’t want to hurt you._

_I love you._

_But John is my closest friend here. With the level of trust I supply to him, I need you to know you can do the same. Whatever it is, whatever truth you must share, you can trust John Watson._

_Please forgive me for sharing our secret with him._

_But if this is truly given to you… If this is actually handed to you from John Watson, it means I’ve passed away. And deciding what words should put on a paper that will arrive to you months after my passing… Electing which words to place on this page knowing you will read them over and over and over and over until you have memorized them all… It’s a lot._

_Because here’s the thing, Sherlock: I'm a hypocrite. If I live, I want us to be together forever until we pass in the same breath because I could never live a moment without you. Yet I know that if you were to ever utter those same words, it would break my heart. _

_Sherlock, I know you. I’ve known you since we were both eight years old and still forming thoughts and opinions about the world and relationships. We formed our views together, our lives laced together from that very first day._

_Yet the idea of you spending a life mourning my passing and dwelling on “what-ifs” truly, certainly, undeniably, verily, and fully shatters my heart._

_Sherlock._

_My love._

_My life._

_My husband._

_I love you._

_Please don’t forget to live. Please don’t forget joy and laughter and music and pleasure and forward progression. Please don’t dwell on our memories until you forget to form new ones. Please don’t recall my ghost until you, too, become one._

_Please. It’s all I ask of you. Please live passionately and boldly and joyfully._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_Please. For me._

_Love eternally,_

_Victor._

* * *

The words, swirling with intention and emotion, were 697 knives in his one lonely, weak heart. They should have killed him, these innocuous, insidious words. This should have been it- the grenade to end his life the way that grenade ended Victor’s.

It was impossible to know when the tears started. It was most likely that the tears were forming from the very first moment his fingers slid underneath the wax seal. The certain last time he would open a message from him. Every motion Sherlock made was intensified. Every word he read would bring him one step closer to the end- every letter he read brought him closer to a reality where he no longer had anything left to receive from the only man who ever mattered. Victor was his only solace in this cruel, unfeeling world.

He held the letter at a distance from his damp face, drinking in the words as his last remaining source of life. He re-read sentences that brought him some semblance of joy with dizzying repeation, closing his eyes and imagining he could _hear_ Victor whispering the words to him. When he could deduce that Victor had taken a break from writing the letter, he paused to imagine what caused the distraction. He noted the two-no three- tone shifts that could mark Victor’s temporary journeys away from the letter.

It was all… so planned. This final goodbye, this period on a sentence he hadn't known had been written yet. He wrote this letter. He asked John to deliver it. Why would Victor write this? Why would he _give up_? Sherlock’s anger rose as rapidly as it diminished into guilt.

With his arm was extended, the letter remained safe- dry and pristine. His tears came unabashedly in this isolated room, his face absolutely drowning in the volume of them. His vision was blurred, his air flow constricted, his voice emitted a pained growl that he had no control over. There was nothing he could do but allow it all. He was helpless to even attempt a facade of control. It took everything- strength, control, effort, focus… It took _everything_ within him to read this letter and there was nothing remaining to impede the emotional response.

So he cried and re-read the letter to deepen the wounds. He cried and read and sobbed until he was fully spent, aching from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, from the ends of his fingers to the deepest pain in the fabric of his soul.

Only when he collapsed did he release the letter, certain he couldn’t bear to imagine his fingers where his husband’s once were any longer. He allowed the letter to fall in sweeping patterns in the air, the thrilling journey taking too long as is floated to settle in front of him. Yet he wasn’t paying attention to its journey or landing place. 

Instead, he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw brilliant blue spots projected on his closed lids.

There was only one instance in all of his life when he’d needed a fix more. It was upon realizing he forgot for only the shortest of moments the exact shade of Victor’s eyes.

“No,” he had whispered to himself. “They were blue. Blue eyes with grey undertones, the common overcast sky bringing out the grey to resemble the heavens.”

But still, the applied description left him wanting and he’d realized he would never again look into them for reassurance in this world brimming with cruelty.

So he had crumbled, his strength diminished. He had left his haunted flat that moment, travelled into the pits of the city’s civilization and located one gentleman who had refused Mycroft’s bribe. In less than half an hour, he was floating away on dense clouds of black unconsciousness.

It hurt. Living without him always hurt. But it hurt much less with something in his system.

That’s what he needed now. He needed the escape, needed to forget all of this.

Removing his hands from his eyes and seeing a kaleidoscope of colour, he looked toward the floor for the letter to pick it up and place it in a safe place and found it immediately.

His eyes were wide, mind rebelling against what he saw.

The letter was close to him.

Too close.

After he’d released it, he hadn’t considered where it might land.

Hadn’t considered that it would land in front of him.

Hadn’t considered that fallen tears might land upon it.

Hadn’t considered the consequences of such an oversight.

Victor’s letters- his lovely words formed with love and thought and the very last of such words Sherlock would ever be able to cling to- were warped.

Stumbling to his feet and backing away with a still-damp face, he shook his head against the horrible truth.

His tears were upon the page, smearing select words to near un-recognition. The memory of his husband had been defiled in mere seconds with thoughtless carelessness.

His last words- “ _I love you. Please. For me. Love Eternally, Victor_ ”- instead of remaining pristine to provide millennia of comfort for Sherlock, were illegible, ink bleeding across the page.

His last love. His last request. His last good-bye.

Soiled.

By Sherlock.

He was out the door before any rational thought could follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof.
> 
> y'all. I have never cried so hard while writing before. Who's ready for some happier days? I know I am.  
> 


	6. Aye Aye, Cap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes John through the streets of Cardiff to introduce him to the drummer  
> With a full band, practice for their first gig can finally begin in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware a _slight _time jump at the scene break.__

“Hurry up!” barked Sherlock from several feet ahead of him. John, irate with self-consciousness when his feet failed to carry him quickly enough, sped up to a light jog. Why was Sherlock so tall?

“I'm trying!” he shouted back through tight teeth.

Sherlock looked back then, a glint of unfamiliar thought in his eyes and, miraculously, slowed down to allow John to keep up more easily. Equal parts embarrassed and thankful, he forced down the slew of words and questions that were fighting to escape.

“ _I’m sorry for your loss_ ,” his brain wanted him to say. “ _I’m sorry it took me so long to get the letter to you. Did you read the letter? What did it say? Did he mention me? Are you okay?_ ”

“Where are we going, anyway?” he asked after some time spent walking in silence. The December air was biting his cheeks, shoulders shaking with cold. When he’d gone up to Sherlock’s flat, Sherlock had blinked several times at him upon seeing his ensemble, inquiring whether John would be better off wearing a jacket in this bitter weather. The truth was that he didn't own a jacket that wasn't military issued. Instead of admitting that he was too poor to afford a jacket that he hadn’t killed somebody in, he joked that a jacket would throw off his style.

But now they had wandered the streets of Cardiff with no apparent purpose for too long and John would soon need treatment for hypothermia.

“No idea,” Sherlock replied casually. He wore a smile upon his lips that was definitely the smile of someone who _did_ have a jacket on.

“What do you mean?” he accused pointedly. How many toes does one really needed, anyway?

“I meant what I said,” he answered with a shrug. “He could be anywhere, we're going to have to wander in order to find him.”

John debated the merits of arguing this logic but instead asked, “And what can you tell me about this drummer of yours?”

“His name, for starters.”

Good Lord, the mouth on this man. And yet an unexpected, burst of laughter escaped, surprising himself. Sherlock’s sly smile grew slightly, staring ahead but clearly pleased with himself for making John laugh.

“And his name is…?” he prompted when his laughter subsided.

“Bill Wiggins. Known primarily by his surname.”

“Like most soldiers,” remarked John, nodding.

“Indeed.”

Sherlock turned a corner abruptly and he couldn't help but notice the grace with which he moved, even in the smallest motions. He was the epicentre of motion and the world conformed around him.

“What was his fight? Pacific?”

Sherlock shook his head, curls fluttering with the motion. “Europe.”

John responded with a noncommittal grunt, thoughtful of the different sort of hell this man saw. John’s story against Wiggins’ would likely sound like products of two vastly different wars rather than stories originating from the same fight.

It didn’t take long for his mind to wander, his eyes flickering to suspiciously scan the tall man beside him. His eyes were wide and alert, his head raised high as he looked for God knew what. He was tense, his body too rigid despite its grace. John knew nothing of the man and yet something seemed… wrong.

He knew.

He _had_ to know.

“Ah ha!” his companion shouted, the declaration startling John out of his spiralling reverie. His head snapped up as Sherlock called out, “Wiggins!”

A shabby man elevated his head at the call, his hand quickly rising to give a sort of choppy wave toward them both. Dark blond hair was unruly on his head and his thick stubble was bordering on becoming a full beard on his narrow face. He wore a filthy shirt, thin and impractical in the harsh cold of the city. His pants were military-issued with haphazardly fixed holes that had been repaired by someone who had clearly never sewn anything else in their life. Despite this, there was nothing on his face to reveal a bitterness of his situation. Instead, his eyes were glazed over with a dreamy distance and John's stomach plummeted with dread.

“Sherlock,” hissed John through tight teeth before they were close enough for Wiggins to hear. “Is he high?”

“No,” responded Sherlock in a barely audible breath.

“Howdy,” called Wiggins when they got a bit closer, his voice thick with a fake American accent that he dropped as he continued. “Didn't expect to see you here so soon again, Shezzer.”

John's shot a surprised look toward Sherlock, whose face was arranged in a stony glare directed toward Wiggins. “What do-”

“Yes, Wiggins, best to shut your mouth now.”

At these words, Wiggins slipped low, guttural laugh and waved his hand in dismissal. “Your wish. Who's your friend?”

“Captain John Watson,” introduced Sherlock, his hand brazenly gesturing to where John stood uncomfortably extending his hand to Wiggins who, instead of shaking his hand, just stared at him with a half smile. John dropped his hand uncomfortably when Sherlock continued, “John here is in need of your talents on drums for his band.”

“What sort of band?” asked Wiggins, his gaze sliding from Sherlock to John. He sounded as though he was stating rather than asking.

John looked again to Sherlock, certain he was missing something. If this man wasn't high-

“Er- Jazz,” he said when Sherlock didn't meet his eyes. “For a contest. If we win, we'll get to be in the movies.”

“When's practice?”

Taken aback, John wished desperately he could pull Sherlock aside and clarify what, exactly, this guy's story was. A terrible pit of wary disapproval sat like a rock in his stomach. He didn’t even know if this guy was any good on drums.

Then again, he hadn’t known if Sholto or Greg were any good when he’d blindly agreed to bring them onboard. And he trusted Sherlock.

Didn’t he?

“Tomorrow,” John said, his eyes remaining upon Sherlock as he addressed Wiggins. It took great effort to reluctantly turn his head toward the appropriate recipient of his statement. “Three or four days a week, never on Tuesdays. The contest is in two months.”

Wiggins nodded, that same vacant stare directed at nothing in particular in response to his words. “Killer diller, Cap.”

“John,” he corrected.

“Killer diller, Johnny boy.”

His stomach tightened. That had been the nickname Victor always used. “Just John.”

“Right,” intervened Sherlock, his patience visibly thinning as though the interaction had taken hours rather than minutes. “John, why not give Wiggins here the details on where to meet and we can all be on our way?”

What was he suddenly in a hurry for?

“Right,” said John hastily, rushing over to Wiggins with paper in hand, jotting down the time and location of their first practice. In turn, Wiggins surprised him by relaying that he’d be using his own drums over whatever amenities might be available in their rehearsal space. Tucking “homeless man owns his own full drum set but can’t afford new pants” away in his “most surprising things” folder, the pair finished their conversation. When John turned around, Sherlock was standing some 20 metres away, his back turned to the pair of them.

The winter wind whipped a long pea coat around his legs, standing far from John- and not just physically. His answers had been short, his patience thin, his demeanour unkind.

 _He knows_.

The thought arose so violently, John was sick with the abruptness of it. It was ridiculous, of course. It was far more likely that he was distant because the two were, in retrospect, strangers. But the two words rang in his head getting louder and louder.

He ran from the idea, acting like a child who believed he could run from anything.

He couldn’t run from this.

“So what’s up with the chucklehead?” asked John through constricted breath from his sprint to catch up to Sherlock.

“Oi,” snapped Sherlock, looking downright offended at his question. “Don’t call him that.”

John blinked, attempting to recall any wrongdoing on his part. “What? Why?”

“He isn’t _stupid_ , John.”

John stared at him incredulously. Wasn’t he there? He _saw_ how that man was, didn’t he? “You can’t be serious?” An uncertain chuckle shook his voice, but the attempted casualty was clearly a mistake.

“He isn’t,” Sherlock snapped, was a mix of emotions that John couldn’t read, a perfect storm of unknown thoughts and _God_ , John just wanted to understand what went on in that mind of his.

“You saw him, surely. He’s homeless and high and there’s something... not quite right-”

“Stop.”

The order was so commanding, John, the Captain in the Royal Army, fell silent instantly. He narrowed his eyes, eyebrows fully pulled together in confusion as he tried to piece together what was happening.

“William Wiggins is not _stupid_ , John.” His words were tense, almost… protective? “He is not high. He is not homeless. And he would never presume the worst in a person without knowing the facts.” John flushed a deep, solid scarlet. “He was hurt in the war. Nobody knows what happened, he can’t even remember obtaining an injury. My bet? He was shot in the head and they had a devil of a time with the surgery. He isn’t always brilliant but he knows things and he is still useful to society and others. Yet as much as this hypocritical society claims they want to help the men who served, no one will hire him. Because there’s ‘something off with him’ or he’s ‘ _stupid’_ , apparently.”

“So to make a living, he’s been forced to the street as a middle-man to deliver drugs to addicts in need of a fix. It’s as much of an honest living as he can get and he must look the part, so he wears what he wears. He, himself, is sober- not even a drop of alcohol in him.”

“But by all means, jump to conclusions about the struggles of others.”

Never in his life had John known such shame. It filled him within an inch of overflowing, the surface tension stretched thin on the horrible sensation. It churned in him at a nauseating tempo.

“I am… _so_ sorry.” It was all he could say. It wasn’t enough. “I am so sorry. God, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You’re right.”

It wasn’t enough.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide upon him, fixing him there with his shame to drown him and he was helpless to move while pinned under that gaze and _it wasn’t enough_.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, hoping he could convey a sentiment that would fill the gaps in his sincerity that his words left.

And because there is good left in the world, Sherlock nodded stiffly, his eyes falling to release John from their hold and John could feel the tension lift from the pair of them.

Who was this strange, unpredictable man? Defender of the underestimated, brilliantly able to know things he can’t possibly know, and widower of a secret, illegal marriage?

“Come along, I’ll accompany you back to a more recognizable part of town,” offered Sherlock, his hands linked behind his back. His tone was no longer harsh, no longer carrying an undercurrent of resentment, but there was a softness in it that wasn’t there before.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said casually. “I know my way around the underbelly of Cardiff.”

“Oh.” There was a long silence, John shifting uncomfortably between the balls of his feet and Sherlock looking around uncertainly. “Right.”

“Right.”

God, he wished Victor was here. He would clap John on the back with a bark of laughter that would light up his eyes and say “Ease up, Watson. He’s my husband, not a croc.”

“It has been a pleasure meeting you,” said Sherlock formerly through the thick strain that lay between them. “Thank you for permitting me to pay you back for the great service you provided me- and V-Victor.”

“No, thank _you_ for permitting me... Thank _you_ for allowing me to permit…” John heaved a sigh. “Thanks.”

Sherlock laughed at his feet, the sound light and melodious in John’s ears. “Right then. See you around.”

He turned on his heels, a fluid rotation accentuated by the twirling of his jacket and John allowed him two-three-four steps away from him before he was shouting after him without consciously making the decision to do so.

“Wait! Sherlock!”

He stopped almost instantly, his head rotating to that he could spot John out of one eye. “Yes?”

John panicked. What was he going to say? He didn’t have anything to actually say, he just wanted to stop him leaving.

“Did you- want to come see me- I mean, us- all of us- perform?”

_What?_

“What?” asked Sherlock, echoing the question in John’s own mind.

“We’re performing in about a week and a half,” he said quickly, words stumbling across one another in their race to escape. “Since you found us Wiggins… Do you want to come watch?”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously, seeming to expect some sort of foul play.

The truth? No, that was insane. A half-truth? Yeah, probably.

“I’d like to- I mean to say… I wouldn’t mind meeting again. We have some things in common so it could be… good…”

He trailed off weakly and Sherlock appeared so thoroughly caught off guard, he was blinking at twice the normal rate. His brow was furrowed, his eyes moving rapidly over John to scan every inch of him.

“Where?”

His relief was a tangible thing. “The Crescent.”

“When?”

“Friday, December 28th. 8 o’clock. One hour set.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, his lips creeping upward on either side in a motion that set John’s heart to a faster pace. “See you then.”

He was walking away without another word and John was frozen in place.

“ _Why did you do that?_ ” the voice in his head asked, puzzled and stumped.

* * *

If Satan himself had come onto the Earth and hand-selected a group of men who would be perfectly incompatible with one another, he could not have put together a group quite as perfect as the one John Watson did. As it turns out, if you get a group of men together who all went through hell and believe their version of hell was worse, tensions aren’t exactly low.

But damn it all if they weren’t brilliant musicians. Over the course of the past four, fluid 90-minute practice sessions, John had grown more and more impressed with the lot of them.

Philip struck each note with perfection, his extensive knowledge of music theory providing him with a casual sort of air as the instruments surround him played with foreign ability.

Greg was a blur of motion on his bass, his tempo immaculate as his dark beat stirred the rich undertones of their music.

Sholto played his trombone with precise motions, not a muscle out of place as he calculated his role with impressive accuracy. If he lacked anything, it was passion and John couldn’t break him from his rigid technique.

Tobias, while irritated with every pause they had to take to correct something, was unendingly perfect. His trumpet was hot, blowing tunes that outshone the sounds around him. His massive form lent his trumpet the appearance of a toy thing, but he behaved as though it was an extension of his hand.

And Wiggins? He was wonderful. His beats were the heart of the music and he was performing at a calibre John had rarely seen in his life. John had been prepared to defend Wiggins against verbal lashings from the other men- likely from Tobias who was impatient and had no tolerance for nonsense or from Greg who was nothing but nonsense. Yet it appeared that he was the only one who was cruel enough to judge him. When John provided him with occasional direction, he would salute with his drumsticks and say “Aye aye, Cap!” with a lazy wink of his eye. Yet the necessity for it was so little since his rhythm and technique were nearly perfect.

Wiggins’ compliance with John’s lead was more than he could say for other members who grumbled at his instructions, save Sholto who silently obliged every note John gave.

They were good. They were _really_ good.

“Hey, can’t we provide you with feedback for your role on them keys?” asked Greg with a mischievous smile toward the end of their fifth practice.

“Afraid not,” replied John with a shake of his head and a knowing smile.

“Oh yeah?” sneered Greg with a wink at Wiggins, who choked back a laugh. “And why’s that?”

“Because _you_ ,” he said, pointing toward Greg with a teasing finger, “are nothing but a never-ending parade of jokes.”

“But what if it’s serious?”

They were providing challenging grins toward one another, Philip’s eyes rolling behind Greg. John knew better than to believe that Philip was actually vexed with either of them.

“Tell you what. If you actually have a piece of helpful critique on my playing, run it by Tobias.” Greg’s face fell instantly, his smile becoming a ghost as his eyes made their way to Tobias, trumpet in hand. “If he agrees it’s serious, he can tell me. If not-”

“Then you’ll see why they called me “Tobias ‘punches people who irritate him’ Gregson.”

The interjection was surprising enough to cause a burst of laughter from the lot of them, including Tobias. His generally stoic face was screwed into a smile that nearly touched his eyes, his deep laughter vibrating through the room.

“Blimey,” laughed Greg. “A joke! Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Tobias wore a devilish grin and said, “Don’t get used to it. Now play, fish boy.”

“That’s a _bass_ -” injected Philip, indignant.

“Gentlemen,” said Sholto, his face fighting a smile as well. “Please, I want to maximize our productivity and I would like to see the kids tonight.”

He was right of course. “Right. I think we’re getting along alright. How many rehearsals do we have left?” He meant it as a rhetorical question, raising his hand to double-check the days on his fingers when Wiggins spoke up rather unexpectedly.

“Three hours and seventeen minutes of rehearsals over the remainder of today plus two more sessions and six days until performance, Cap.”

He gave a mock salute once again when the whole of them looked at him with a bit of surprise. He didn’t speak much and he spoke much less to contribute actual information.

“Er- thanks, mate,” said John, turning to face the others as well. “Let’s spend the rest of today on the Proud Riff and on Monday we can practice Ain’t We Proud.”

“Where would you like to pick up then?” asked Philip, fingers poised over his pages.

“Measure 97. Greg, make sure you’re jumping on that syncopation, make the fall off bigger.”

“What do you say?” mocked Greg with that heart-melting smile that made John certain that he surely couldn’t be _that_ handsome?

“I don’t know…” said John, pretending to be deep in thought. “What do I say, Tobias ‘punches people who irritate him’ Gregson?”

“Do it,” Tobias said flatly and the lot of them burst into laughter again.

“Alright, alright,” called John to refocus them.  “5, 6, 7, 8,” he counted before they all fell into a haze of jazz and performance and for seventeen more glorious minutes, there were no horrors to recall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the band so much. I love every single one of them.


	7. Ain't We Proud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night of the band's first performance at The Cresent. Despite the thrill of playing for a crowd after years, the hour-long set will only be the second best part of John's evening.

“Nervous?”

John turned toward the voice, his attention ripped from the assembling crowd in The Crescent. Philip stood with his hands behind his back, eyes lit from within with a polite curiosity.

“Not even a bit,” he lied.

“Good,” he nodded as his own eyes swept the amassing crowd. “You’ve no reason to be.”

“Thanks, Philip.”

In way of an answer, Philip’s feet shuffled uncomfortably beneath him, his eyes looking everywhere but John. He didn’t leave, didn’t continue, but stood there, teeth working on his lower lip.

“Say, how are _you_ feeling?” asked John.

He shrugged, uncaring. “I do this fairly often. I’m not nervous.”

It didn’t add up. “Alright, then tell me, mate: what’s wrong?”

Philip flushed, eyes going wide and landing, finally, directly upon John. “N-nothing? Why do you ask?”

John bit back a laugh but couldn’t refrain his smile. “You’re acting a bit funny, you know?”

“Oh.” Philip cast his head down, a hand massaging the nape of his neck. “Dunno. I guess I am nervous.”

“Don’t be. We’re ready.”

Philip’s eyes were intent upon a notch in the wood for a long moment before he looked up again, slowly, and replied, “I know.”

Then he was gone, heading toward the staging area where his saxophone awaited his preparation.

“What?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head to clear a lingering confusion before redirecting his attention back to the patrons socializing beyond the curtain.

He could pretend he was assessing the size of the crowd. He could pretend he was checking to see how attentive the audience would be. He could pretend he was simply observing people who would soon be cheering their hard work. He could pretend.

Yet every time he saw a black curl, vibrant eyes, or a tall, lean figure, his heart would jump out of his ribcage until he realized with falling hope that, no, it wasn’t him.

He told himself it didn’t matter, that he was just looking to see if he would come. He was worried about him.

When Sholto came to inform him that there were five minutes until curtain, John removed his hand and allowed the curtain to close, his mind refocusing on the task at hand.

Four minutes.

This was it: their first show. Their first real attempt to see if they had what it took to win this contest. This was all on John.

Three minutes.

The group of them assembled themselves directly behind the curtain they would exit through in silence, the age-old performance butterflies never ceasing to impact any of them.

Two minutes.

Greg drank the rest of his whiskey in one quick gulp. John provided him with a sideways glance but said nothing. Then he picked up another, fresh drink and downed that one the same way.

One minute.

Al’s voice came on over the microphone, announcing to a suddenly hushed audience that this evening would see three performers. Without further ado, he called to the stage-

"A band so new, they haven't a name yet! Let's hear it for six men recently returned from the war.”

The lot of them walked onto the stage with a confidence entirely feigned, falling into position, allowing silence to fall for one simple moment. In that moment, John’s fingers hovered over the keys of the magnificent Grand Piano and he understood with alarming clarity that _this_ was his therapy.

His blood was singing. His heart was light. Even Victor’s voice, ever present in his war-fogged mind was diminished to an unheard level. His mind was focused on only one thing: the instinctual knowledge of the instrument before him. It was a part of him. It was an extension of him.

Without further thought, he nodded at Wiggins, who played his one-measure drum intro with passion and energy. The short intro was joined by a burst of horns to accent the chords stuck on the piano and his voice rang clearly through the immense building:

“ _I know a guy you’d never guess would be a hero. Just some mellow, average fellow-_ ”

And it was all music, it was all there was in the world, it was all perfection.

* * *

An hour is an incredibly short time when you’re doing the thing you were born to do. It positively flew by, the time flowing at the exact tempo set by their band.  When they concluded their final song, the individuals who had taken up dancing on the huge marble floor before the stage stopped with panting breath and clapped enthusiastically.

Despite it all, John couldn’t bask in the glory of performance. Instead, he looked upon his band members, seeing in them a level of freedom and relief that was mirrored in his own heart. Greg, beaming with every tooth visible and cheeks flushed with something other than alcohol. Sholto, upright as ever and providing small bows in a few directions while his eyes glinted with joy. Wiggins, who waved his drumsticks around at the crowd and smiled blankly. Tobias, who was trying desperately to seem annoyed with the audience or his fellow band members but, instead, was reluctantly pleased. And Philip, sheepishly grinning at nobody in particular and clearly receiving a larger round of applause than he was accustomed to, was more alive than John had ever seen him.

It was perfect. It was a high to be unchallenged. It was needed more than any of them could say.

They walked offstage with the genuine confidence that had been lacking when they walked onto. Their places were taken by the next band and Al’s voice boomed in mumbled clarity as he made their introduction. As the six of them made their way back toward the green room, Greg was positively skipping for joy, practically jumping on the shoulders of Tobias as he chanted, “We killed it! We _killed_ it!”

Tobias was clearly annoyed with Greg’s display of affection but simply rolled his eyes and said, “I’ve killed worse, I suppose.”

Greg howled with laughter and John wondered how long the two had known one another to have this sort of relationships. Wiggins, laughing along, said in a nearly sarcastic tone, “I prefer this sort.”

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen and gentlemen,” declared Lestrade dramatically, “I’ve got a dame out there who is positively _bursting_ to tell me how amazing I was.”

He clicked a wink at the lot of them and clapped Philip on the back before sauntering off to the lobby.

“Yeah, a lady called ‘Gin’,” whispered Philip to John and it was the worst thing to laugh at but it was all they could do. None of them- not even Sholto- could fault him for his need for the substance.

“I don’t know much about music, I’ll admit,” came a silk voice from behind John. “But I would venture that you were quite good.”

John was smiling before he could turn around to look at the face attached to the voice. Because he _knew_. He’d only seen the man twice yet it wouldn’t have been possible for him to not recognize the timber, pitch, and cadence of it.

“Sherlock,” he observed, attempting to sound surprised and, somehow, indifferent. “You came.”

Sherlock shrugged and John thought- or hoped- that he wasn’t the only one feigning a casual air. “I had nothing else going on.”

God, he’d forgotten how handsome he was. It was the worst sort of realization that couldn’t be escaped. He couldn’t possibly  _not_ realize how handsome he was. He was the picture of beauty with soft waving locks, enormous sparkling eyes that were always wide with inquisitive curiosity, and his impossibly long legs were accented pleasently by his smart fashion and high-waisted tousers.

Shoot. How long had he stood there, silently staring with a stupid grin on his face? Rapidly, words stumbling with the speed he was trying to get them out, “Where are my manners? This is Sherlock Holmes," he said addressing the four men before him. "Sherlock, this is the band- minus Greg, who’s-”

“The bassist who passed me on his way out to the lobby and asked for the fastest way to the bar?”

John smiled while Tobias let out a low chuckle and said, “Yeah, that’s him.”

“You,” said Sherlock suddenly, staring intently upon Philip who looked more than a bit alarmed to be addressed as such. “You were quite good.”

“T-Thank you,” said Philip with a hint of a question.

“How long have you been playing?” John ignored the way Sherlock leaned in closer when he asked. Well, he tried to, at least.

“My whole life.”

“I can tell.” Then Sherlock shot him a smile so dazzling, he wasn’t surprised to find Philip at a loss of words.

“Then this is Major James Sholto,” John introduced, perhaps too boisterously, gesturing to Sholto beside Philip, who Sherlock nodded politely to. “You know Wiggins, of course, and that’s Tobias Gregson.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock said to Tobias, extending his hand in a handshake. “Would any of you object if I stole John away for a drink? I have business to discuss with him.”

There was a general murmuring of disinterest as they fell away without a second glance. John followed Sherlock out to the lobby where the air was filled with triumphant jazz. The bassist was slightly offbeat and the trumpet was blowing too hard, but otherwise, it was acceptable for setting the atmosphere that Al desired in his club.

“Yes, your band was better,” said Sherlock matter-of-factly, piercing through his thoughts.

“How did you-”

“I always know.” Sherlock wore a sly smile, his eyes never leaving the spot before him that was, John assumed, their destination. “You want a drink?”

“No,” he lied.

“Yes, you do.”

Sherlock ordered the pair of them some drinks and invited John to take a seat with him at an isolated table that was a decent distance from the performers. From here, the music was still loud but the two could comfortably speak in raised voices without their words getting lost.

“Thank you,” John called when Sherlock pulled himself into the other seat across from him at their table and slid a drink over to John.

“Don’t mention it.”

It was hard to speak to him. It was hard to think of anything to say at all. He fell silent and before long, it had been quiet for too long.

“ _Say something- anything_ ,” his mind was screaming at him.

“So,” said Sherlock slowly and he knew that Sherlock was feeling uncomfortable as well. Why had John thought this would be a good idea? “Would you like to know which of your band members was a prisoner of war?”

“I- _What_?” John practically shouted. Had he heard that right? “What do you mean?!”

Sherlock seemed taken aback and proceeded more slowly. “I mean… I just meant- Sorry. Would you prefer to know which of your friends is gay?”

“ _WHAT?_ ”

It was the most peculiar thing to see Sherlock look as perplexed as John felt. He seemed surprised by John’s reaction as though his words weren’t the originating source of such a reaction. Painted on his face was alarm mingled with confusion as he continued, “I- I’m sorry. What- I don’t have to tell you.” He was scrambling for words, scrambling for a dry place on a ship that was sinking. “I was trying to think of something to say and I panicked- clearly I chose incorrectly, I-”

“Now hold on just a moment,” John rushed to interrupt. “I’m not- mad. I’m not offended. I’m… confused.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t believe any of them could be gay or prisoners or war?”

“No,” he jumped to correct. “I’m just confused about… I mean to say… Didn’t you just meet them? When did they tell you?”

He watched as Sherlock looked very intently upon him for exactly two eternal seconds before realization floored his expression. When understanding swept over him, his whole body released its tension and his mouth formed a relaxed “Oh.”

“Victor didn’t tell you what I do for a living.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“And you weren’t actually a client. So you haven’t seen my advertisement.”

“No.”

“Ah,” Sherlock drawled, bringing his glass to his lips for one small sip. “As always, context clarifies.” When John gave him a quizzical look, he waved away John’s unspoken questions. “Doesn’t matter. I’m a detective... of sorts.”

He’s a detective. Those three words threw everything else into place. He’d initially thought John was a client. Then, he’d known that he was a soldier from the Pacific theatre despite not knowing who he was. John had nearly forgotten that part in all the insanity of that day. He had been perplexed, wondering how on Earth he knew. “A detective, you say?” He took a drink while Sherlock nodded and he punctuated the realization with, “You’re right. Context clarifies.”

Sherlock gave him a mischievous smile, long fingers toying with the rim of his barely-drunk glass.

“So you’re a detective- makes sense- but still… How did you know I was a soldier or that one of my bandmates was a prisoner of war? You didn’t interrogate us.”

“I didn’t need to,” he said confidently. “I examined the evidence and I reached my conclusions.”

“But… how?”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows for a moment, clearly racking his brain for the right words. “I don’t always know,” he admitted. “I see what I see and the conclusions come to me rather naturally. Can you tell me why water is wet?”

John thought for a long moment, hoping desperately for a satisfactory clever response to come to him. When none did, he conceded, “No, it just is.”

“Exactly,” said Sherlock triumphantly, leaning back in his chair. “So sometimes I can explain my deductions like a well-reasoned thesis- such as your tan explaining that your service was in the Pacific rather than in cloudy Europe. But other things- the way you carry yourself that screams soldier and the way your band mate was staring at you… See, those things are visual stimuli that allow me to _know_ things, even if I don’t know how I know. Your posture is that of a soldier. You never see a civilian walk like you do even if you do see soldiers walk like civilians.”

Brilliant.

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide with surprise and the faintest of colours rose to those angular cheeks. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean it. That is bloody brilliant. You’re a right genius.”

Of course. Of course Victor’s husband would be a brilliant model. Of course sweet, caring, funny, handsome Victor had an equally perfect spouse. Yet there was something… _more_ to Sherlock. Something that he’d never seen in Victor.

“To be frank, I am relieved to hear you say that,” said Sherlock in a hushed tone that was difficult to hear over the blaring music.

“Why’s that?” inquired John, perplexed.

“I’m a bit strange. Some people don’t like it.”

“What?” shouted John because he couldn’t hold back his indignation. “Why?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, eyes downcast toward his fidgeting fingers. “I don’t always know what isn’t obvious. For example, imagine you met a man with a wedding ring. Imagine as you’re chatting, you ask him how long he’s been married. Then, imagine he becomes outraged, demanding to know how you knew he was married. You would try to tell him that it was obvious because he was wearing a ring. But imagine he was still angry at you for it.”

“That… wouldn’t be fair,” muttered John.

“A ring. Physical evidence. Married. A logical assumption based on what the ring means. Yet he gets angry. I encounter much of that in my life.”

The music had an abrupt sour taste as John’s mind went wild imagining how awful people were to this man because he was simply more brilliant than them.

“Now imagine I noted your band mate’s sexuality in front of him,” Sherlock continued. “Even though it’s obvious to me- even though the evidence is there for _anybody_ to see-”

“He probably wouldn’t like it,” finished John.

Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised to find John’s understanding. The way his eyes softened, warming as they took John in was doing things to him- dangerous things.

“So,” he practically shouted, desperate to get that look off of Sherlock’s face. “Who is it?”

“Who’s what?” asked Sherlock, sounding sincerely dazed.

“Who’s gay?”

“Oh,” he said, suddenly impatient and dismissive of the question. “Philip.”

“Philip?!” he shouted, eyes bulging from their sockets.

“Of course. You see the way he looks at you, surely. I thought it was admiration but did you see the way he reacted when I leaned toward him and smiled?”

John laughed unbelieving, shaking his read and rolling his eyes. “Philip is not attracted to me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in turn as well, half-mocking John’s reaction. “Of course he is.”

He was so certain. It caused a pause in John’s own certainty. Come to think of it, he’d known Philip since his uni days and he’d never seen him with a woman. But still… _Philip_ ? Attracted to _him_?

He swallowed hard against the thought, guilt surging through him for a reason he couldn’t pinpoint. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock suspiciously. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

John took a moment to take a long drink of his martini. He felt the liquid burn in his throat and settle as a ball of warmth in his stomach. When he returned his glass to the table, he fixed Sherlock with an investigative gaze and asked, “Alright. Impress me. What else do you _think_ you know about the band members?”

“Including yourself?”

“Oh, God no,” laughed John, shaking his head vigorously. “No, I couldn’t handle it.”

Sherlock stared at him intently, that signature flame of curiosity burning within. “Why’s that?”

John melted under the heat of those penetrating eyes. “I suppose I would like to imagine that you don’t know anything that I haven’t told you.”

“Of course, you must know that I do, though.”

John gulped down a lump of panic that crawled up his throat. What did he know? “Right, but I still reckon I’ll keep pretending you don’t.”

His large, inquisitive eyes drooped slightly but their intent remained laser-focused. “Hmm,” he hummed in response, raising his glass to take yet another drink.

Good idea, actually. John took another as well and successfully finished every drop within. John looked at Sherlock, his nerves dancing around him to the rhythm of a salsa. It was just a question. He could ask him. Just ask him. Do it.

Wasn’t alcohol supposed to be liquid courage? He needed it to be.

“Hey,” he practically shouted, volume inappropriate and causing a look of surprise to flash over Sherlock.

“Yes?”

 _Ask. Ask him. Just ask_.

Instead, he stared blankly across the table, a nervous laugh bubbling from him without a smile. “Can I ask you s-something?”

Curse his trembling words.

“Let me guess,” Sherlock drawled, suddenly relaxing and leaning forward a bit. “You want to know how I escaped service.”

“Oh,” said John lamely, surprised this question hadn’t occurred to him before. “Well, no. I mean- yeah, actually. That’s a good question. How _did_ you avoid service?”

Sometimes it seemed that Sherlock was surprised by the natural flow of a conversation. It was as though Sherlock knew exactly how a conversation _should_ go. If it didn’t go the way he expected, brakes were visible in his alarmed eyes. In this moment, Sherlock looked positively frantic that John apparently hadn’t been about to ask the question he thought he would. Yet it was something more… That look was the insinuation that _John_ was the culprit of his frequent surprise.

“I have friends in high places. Well- not multiple. Just one. And not particularly a friend, either” said Sherlock, still looking at John like he was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I have a git brother who thinks he knows what’s good for me and ensured I wouldn’t go to war despite my own wishes.”

This information churned in John’s brain, turning to mush as he tried to reason it. “So your brother... What? Has influence in matters of government?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers on the table. “Sure. An _influence_.” The words were sharp with contempt, his mouth a harsh line.

“What-”

“What was your original question?” Sherlock interrupted, tone still carrying an impatient bite that did nothing to provide John with the courage to ask.

“It was nothing,” he said hastily, shaking his head in non-verbal refusal.

In response, Sherlock heaved a great sigh that mingled with a groan. He cast his eyes to the ceiling for a drawn-out moment, deep breaths raising his chest. After a show of wrangling his patience, he met John’s eyes once more and said in a low voice, “Please.”

Those eyes were impossible. Impossible to exist, coloured with a pallet of radiant blues. Impossible to resist, depth of soul visible with a call to him like the call of a siren to a sailor.

“I don’t want to overstep,” John said, trailing off when his courage couldn’t be sustained.

“You know, it is possible for me to refuse to answer if you do.”

He had a point.

“Alright,” he said, clearing his throat even though it wasn't needed and shifting in his seat even though he wasn’t uncomfortable. He would see right through him. “I was wondering… how are you married? It’s illegal to even _be_ \- I mean if you can’t even _be_ , then how can you…” he trailed off, allowing the insinuation to fill the gaps.

Miraculously, his cheek twitched with a hint of a smile, though no such smile broke out. “You astound me, John Watson.” The sentiment was abrupt, unexpected. John started, praying his cheeks would not betray him. He was about to stutter out a nonsensical response when Sherlock continued, “I told you. I have a brother in high places.”

John fixed him with a stare that he hoped would do all the talking for him. It was a look that said “you know I need more than that.” Several seconds were spent like this, each challenging the other to concede.

“Fine,” he muttered and leaned closer so he could whisper the words under cover of blaring jazz. “My brother does not have mere influence over the government. He essentially is the government. He is the power of the state and the church rolled into one massive pain in the ass.”

“Now, as I’m sure you know,” he continued, “there are two ways to be married: legally with a marriage license or “in the eyes of God”- but not legally- by a priest. Back in 1836, it became legal to enter a civil marriage when done performed a government official. No priest necessary.”

“Okay,” John said slowly, trying to keep up.

“But as I said, he’s not just the government, he has his stubby, grimy fingers in the church as well. He’s ordained and if that doesn't say anything about the state of organized religion, I don't know what does. Anyway, so my brother- a government official, to put it lightly- married us. He officiated a secret ceremony with Mrs. Hudson and Victor’s sister as witnesses. He oversaw the legal proceedings of it and kept the official certificate hidden and safe. In the copies he sent to record keeping, he changed one of our names to avoid suspicion. However, officially, we were married because the original marriage license remained unaltered. We followed all the rules. Well, all the rules except for the big one- no woman involved. My brother was willing to break that one rule as a favour to me. And like I said,” he added with a flourish, “my brother is ordained. So it is official in both senses.”

“Wow,” he breathed. It was all he could say. It was like- destiny. Everything in their lives aligning perfectly to allow them to be married and in love and protected-

Well. Not fully protected.

“So your brother gave you two a legal marriage.”

“Yes.”

“And he prevented you from entering the war?”

“Yes.”

“But then,” he said, eyebrows furrowing together as the words came out slowly, “why didn’t he stop Victor from entering?”

Sherlock went rigid all over, his back stiffening and hands withdrawing into his lap. “When he gives me a satisfactory answer, I’ll let you know.” The words were so bitter, so loaded with animosity and anger and John’s heart constricted in equal measure.

They sat in silence, their bitter, lonely thoughts circling them until the jazz warped to something demented in the shadow of their sorrow.

“I have a question now,” declared Sherlock after several songs spent in silence between them. The assertion surprised John, his eyes flying painfully wide from initial surprise.

“Yes?”

“Were you there when it happened? When Victor- when he- got hurt? Did you see what happened?”

“No.”

The answer was short, contrite, and shallow in his own ears.

“I need another drink, excuse me,” he said hastily, gripping his empty martini glass in one hand. He walked away with false ease, pretending vehemently not to notice Sherlock’s affronted stare.

He ordered a triple scotch and defiantly rose his eyebrows at the bartender who judged his order.

“John!” floated a familiar voice beside him. John turned to his left and saw Greg several seat over, eyes glazed over with the familiar influence of the drink in his hand. “Mate, you’re doing a good thing here. You know that?”

“What are you on about?” he asked with a friendly smile, taking his scotch with a grateful nod to the servicing bartender and walking a couple feet to where Greg sat.

“The band. Our band. It’s good,” he said simply, and that was the end of that. “Who’s your friend over there?”

“Er-” John didn’t know how to answer that. “He’s not really…” and the idea popped into his head with aggressive excitement. “Do you want to come meet him? He’s not sick of your antics yet.”

Greg’s laugh was an easy, floating thing across the space between them. “You know what? He doesn’t even know me yet but you can’t guarantee he isn’t sick of my antics.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he joked with a jab of his elbow at Greg’s arm. “Come on, you’ll like him.”

He led the way, pretending to be blind to the suspicious look that Sherlock was shooting the two the entire time since John left. Both Greg and John fell into step with the beat of the music, an unconscious inclination to march to the beat of the drum instilled in them both in the military.

“Hey, this is Greg,” John said over the music when they got to the circle table John had been sitting at with Sherlock. “The bassist, as you saw.”

“Sherlock,” he offered politely to Greg. His pupils dilated slightly, his eyes going softer with a small smile and John worked to repress a laugh that was crying to escape. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that Sherlock was as stunned as John at Greg’s looks.

“Yikes,” Greg said, laughing. His body shook with it, his head shaking as he said, “Sherlock? Thanks mum and dad, right?”

Sherlock’s face was completely blank and John was horrified. Why would Greg-

Sherlock’s laugh cut right through John’s horror. It was a sudden a knife of noise, his guttural, genuine laugh. His smile was stretched tightly across his face and it was the most beautiful John had ever seen anybody look. It knocked his breath clear out of his body, his mind and heart softening under the warmth of it.

“You are certainly right,” he said between laughs. “My brother’s name is Mycroft.”

“Sherlock and Mycroft… Jesus.”

“You know, most people just give me funny looks and pretend their silence is better than the look.”

“Most people are gits,” Greg offered with a shrug.

Sherlock’s laugh was music to drown out the band. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice!” he responded with a wink and took more than a sip of his amber beverage.

“Sherlock’s the one who found us Wiggins,” John said as the two drank.

“No kidding? How do you know him? You wouldn’t happen to know what happened to, you know,” he said and pointed to his head, whistling.

Sherlock shook his head, curling bouncing with the motion. “Afraid not. Wasn’t there when it happened.”

“Gotcha. So how’d you meet him?”

Sherlock paused then, eyes flickering to John who had unconsciously leaned in slightly at the question. How _did_ they meet?

The band finished playing then, a lull of uncomfortable quiet shuffling as they made way for the next and final band who would, hopefully, be better than their predecessors.

“He was a client of mine,” said Sherlock slowly, voice too loud for the acclimated volume of the room.

“Client?” said Greg at an equally inappropriate volume.

“Private detective,” Sherlock said with a shrug of his shoulders. Nonchalant. Casual.

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.”

“Is that how you know John here as well?” asked Greg with a nudge toward John. “Or did you two used to perform together?”

“Oh, God no,” Sherlock practically choked out. “I don’t sing in public. No, no performing. No, he was client.”

The lie was alarmingly convincing and John wondered if-

Wait. _Sing_?

“Ah, what happened? Did he misplace the stick-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” John interrupted rapidly, fixing Sherlock with a disbelieving look. “Did you say you sing?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but colour rose in his cheeks, betraying him entirely. “I believe I said I _don’t_ sing.”

“No,” he drawled, a grin growing slowly, knowingly, entirely across his disbelieving face. “You said you don’t sing in _public_.”

“I- no- That’s not-” Sherlock scoffed incredulously but his hands tightened in on themselves and John’s jaw dropped. As he stared, the next band started playing following Al’s introduction and John felt a cruel satisfaction that their band was so much better-

 _Their band_.

“Oh my, God-”

“No.”

“Sherlock-”

“No.”

“You have to sing-”

“ _No_.”

“-with us!”

“ _NO!_ ” shouted Sherlock above the din of the newly awful band.

“Wow,” injected Greg. “Johnny is willing to share the spotlight with you? I wouldn’t take that lightly.”

Positively fuming, Sherlock spoke through tight teeth. “Drop it.”

But it was perfect. John himself was a decent singer but nothing astonishing. Perhaps not even good enough to win the contest.

But a band of veterans… featuring a singer who lost a “wife” in the war…

“Yeah, he’s probably not better than you anyway, John,” Greg said, interrupting John’s racing thoughts.

“What? Why-” but Greg discreetly winked at John and he understood, falling silent and going still.

“I mean he’s got too low of a voice for it,” said Greg, gesturing to Sherlock as though they were speaking of him behind his back instead of right in front of him. “You can tell. And you’re trained and he’s not-”

“Excuse you,” said Sherlock with ire and John was thrilled to find him so easily baited. “My range is fine and I have been trained-”

“Oh my God!” John laughed, hands coming up to his face as he laughed into them. “Oh my God, Sherlock! This is _perfect_! This was so meant to be, you have to sing with us!”

“Greg, would you happen to know the reason behind John’s chronic insomnia?” asked Sherlock cooly after several moments spent fixing John under an icy stare.

John wanted to groan, wanted to shake the brilliant mind and make him see reason. He knew- could feel it in his gut with absolute certainty- that this was meant to be: Sherlock joining their band of broken men to convey the image of wartime struggle for this contest. Sherlock needed this band as much as John did, as much as they all did.

“Insomnia, you say,” Greg said, eyeing John.

“Yes, he also-”

“Okay, okay,” said John, waving his white flag and stopping Sherlock from exacting any more revenge via public deductions. “Fine. I’ll drop it.”

“He’s good.” Greg rose his eyebrows when he said it to John, nodding his head to Sherlock. “Don’t piss him off again or I’ll take advantage of it and find out what other dirt he has on you.”

He then took another drink and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock but there’s a beautiful dame all by her lonesome that requires my charm.”

Sherlock muttered his good-bye and watched him walk away, a strange admiration in his eyes. “I like him,” he said decidedly after a few seconds of deliberation.

“Yeah, me too,” said John, still distracted. “You know, you like Wiggins too.”

“John,” he said warningly.

“And you don’t mind me, either,” John said, more passion in his voice.

“ _John-_ ”

“No, please, Sherlock. Please just listen, okay?” John pleaded. Sherlock was physically closed off, his arms crossed, his mouth tight, his body full of tension. John scrambled into his seat once again and leaned in, gazing at him with nothing but hope and eagerness.

“Please,” he said again, urging Sherlock to listen with every ounce of his being. Impossibly, miraculously, incredibly, Sherlock finally released his tension and, with a sigh, silently gestured for John to continue.

“Listen,” he said softly, gently. “You don’t have to- perform. Just… come to a practice. I can say you’re there to give feedback- which you can. Okay? And we can make a deal.” This got Sherlock’s attention, his eyebrows shooting upward and his body leaning in. “If you like it- if you find yourself glad you came, then you sing along with me on one of the practice songs.”

Scepticism painted his face, his lip working under his teeth as he considered the proposal.

“Fine.”

Relief flooded through his entire body, illuminating him from the inside and providing him with an unfamiliar lightness.

“Oh my, God,” he laughed, exuberant. “You won’t regret this, Sherlock. You’re going to love it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” dismissed Sherlock sourly, yet John swore he saw his cheek twitch ever so slightly.

Excusing himself to ask for pen and paper from the bar, John wrote down the location of their rehearsals and the different days that he could drop by. Hesitating, he refrained from only giving him the date of the soonest practice. It was fairer, he knew, to give him options.

He almost raced back to the table with the note, worried that Sherlock may have left to avoid John’s invitation. However, he remained seated, eyes wandering around the room and hands toying with the now-empty glass.

“Here you go,” John said, extending the paper to Sherlock enthusiastically. “All the information you need is on there. But listen, I gotta hit the road.”

The announcement visibly surprised Sherlock, though his tone was even as he said, “Me too, actually.”

They walked their empty glasses to the bar, where they left them for the bartender to take for cleaning. The soundtrack of their exit was none too pleasant with off-tempo drums and off-key singing. Through their walk toward the grand entrance, they made innocent small-talk until the cold, silent night outside embraced them both.

“Anyway,” said John uncomfortably, studying his shoes. “I guess I’ll see you within the next two weeks, yeah?”

“Yeah,” whispered Sherlock. John risked a minuscule glance up to him and saw that he, too, was looking at the ground beneath them.

“Right.”

Silence.

“Well, have-”

“Thank you.” It was whispered so softly, John wasn’t positive he had heard it at all after the raucous jazz of the past couple hours. He looked up at the man and waited a moment, the two small words delicately floating around his mind. “Thank you for… inviting me tonight. I couldn’t possibly express to you how desperately I needed this evening out. How much I needed… a laugh.”

“You can thank Greg for that one,” John deflected with a small, forced chuckle.

“No,” Sherlock said severely, his head snapping to John’s. His face was soft, eyes wide and sparkling and sincere. “I can thank _you_ for that.”

John found himself positively drowning in the deepest, loveliest waters in the simple action that was returning Sherlock’s look. “You’re welcome,” he spoke in the closest thing he could manage to a steady voice.

“Have a good night, John,” he said with a bow of his head before turning on his heels and striding down the street in the opposite direction.

For a long time, John stood there, watching his figure diminish in size until he rounded a corner to 97th street and disappeared completely. He watched in wonder and he stared in amazement and he couldn’t pull himself out of this whirlwind that was sweeping his attention to remain wholly on Sherlock Holmes.

To took some time for him to snap himself out of it. When the cold caught up with him, he shook his head and turned to go home.

John walked away from The Crescent, his legs carrying what felt like nothing at all. He was light, his heart was leaping over itself in its attempt to beat its way out of his chest. A smile tore at his lips and even as he fought to rid of it, it stubbornly remained.

It had been a perfect night.

Perhaps Sherlock would-

He froze then, mind and body screeching to a complete stand-still. His brain was fried and terrified and disgusted and within it, only one familiar, indignant voice remained to scream the realization.

_Oh my God. You complete cock. You have a crush on your dead best friend’s husband._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses on who the POW is? I did tell you... But did you listen? 😉  
> (And yes, Sherlock was 100% lying when he said he didn't know much about music.)
> 
> The chapter name is the song that John was singing at the opening of the set. As I mentioned before, this is based on the musical Bandstand. If you want to hear the song, you can hear it on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/0xmuGHDH5nCbwvYMBUXY8e?si=61iHpdF-SKucaDkbwLMLhA). But, as I said before, I would **highly recommend not listening to any other songs** from the musical in order to avoid some pretty huge spoilers for this fic.


	8. First Steps First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock joins the band for a rehearsal and it's beyond anything he could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics in this chapter indicate (besides emphasis): one, Sherlock's deductions/inner thoughts and two, words that are sung versus spoken.

“ _What_?”

“Nothing, dear.”

Sherlock huffed, a fierce denial settling over him. Mrs. Hudson's upturned lip, raised eyebrows, and cheery demeanour screamed her thoughts and he wished to be deaf to them.

“I know,” she said innocently in response to his defensive silence. When he continued to glower at her, she huffed and rolled her eyes, saying, “Now really, Sherlock. I know it’s not a date. Don’t look at me that way.”

“If you _know_ ,” he retorted, “then why are you so smug?”

She shrugged, picking up a few old newspapers off of the sitting room table. “You just deserve a break from staying home with me every day. It’s good to see you so excited about something.”

He rolled his eyes even as he repressed a smile. “You know, there is a reason I chose to come here out of all places after Victor passed. I do enjoy my time with you.”

She froze for the slightest of seconds before her motions resumed slower than before. Her eyes darted briefly to him, though her voice remained steady when she said, “You know, that’s the first time you’ve said his name without flinching since... Well, you know...”

He flushed, mouth opening for a retaliation but his mind unable to scrape one together. She was correct, after all. “Yeah,” he finally said, shame overwhelming him. “I guess it is.”

It felt a fiery betrayal.

“Oh, you’re _fine_ ,” she cooed, sparkling eyes brimming with compassion. “Anyhow, I do think it’s about time you got out, began a new chapter and filled it with thrilling adventures.”

“And which adventures would those be? The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes? Don’t be so saccharine, Mrs. Hudson.”

She shook her head and smiled down at the newspapers in her hands. “Alright, alright,” she conceded. “But you look very nice and I am very happy for you.” She crossed over to him to place a kiss on his forehead before leaving. She pulled the door closed behind her and, before it clicked shut, she spoke in a coy tone.

“Oh, and Sherlock? You missed a spot shaving.”

His head snapped to see her face through the doorway. She smiled mischievously before taking her final exit.

Sherlock managed to stay put for one minute and 37 seconds before standing up to check the mirror, telling himself he only cared because Mrs. Hudson cared.

* * *

The rehearsal space left much to be desired. Namely, any acoustics of value. Still, the small space provided enough room for the band to gather without any sensation of crowding.

It should have been no surprise that, as early as he arrived, there was but one person already there. James Sholto sat rigidly still upon a stool, his head rotating only minutely when Sherlock’s footsteps reached his ears.

“Good afternoon,” he said not meeting Sherlock’s curious stare.

“Afternoon,” he murmured, excitement leaving him with great speed to be replaced by overactive anxiety. He rose his right hand to look at his watch, realizing with dread that he was far too early. 17 minutes early, to be exact.

The silence was thick, a pressure upon him that exposed his every nerve. Had he really been so desperate for another night out that he’d shown up to a band practice 17 minutes early?

He moved his attention to James Sholto and read what he needed off of the man. Still, for an excuse to stare, he prompted, “Why are you here so early?”

If he’d expected a shrug or other familiar motion, he’d been mistaken. Remaining still, Sholto simply turned his head to Sherlock and said, “I had nothing else to do and I prefer to arrive to my engagements early.”

_Estranged family. Suffering from some variation of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder._

“Right. And do the others share your passion for punctuality?”

This earned a smile- a begrudging smile, but a smile nevertheless. “Afraid not. Service left them less disciplined.”

_Royal Marine. Major. Served over ten years._

“And how do you know the lot of them?”

“I don’t. Not really, at least,” he said, the traces of disconcert painting his face. “I knew Tobias from training and he told John about me. He recruited me for this… idea of his.”

_Reluctantly wrangled into this arrangement. This band is typically below him._

“And how, pray tell,” Sherlock urged, “did he convince you to get onboard?”

Sholto cleared his throat, shifting with visible discomfort. “In many ways, this contest is a fool’s dream.”

The shift threw him. “But?”

“But in many ways, I am a fool.”

_Idealistic. Stoic with dreams that will haunt him until he achieves them._

“How long-”

“Sherlock!” a voice called behind him. His heart gave one firm thump in his chest, his eyes widening because he knew the voice before he turned around.

He rotated on the spot, keeping his face arranged in a cool dismissal. “Ah, John. Nice of you to finally join us.”

John stopped, a file of messy papers held in his hands, hair a tumble and face confused. “What are you on about? I’m nearly fifteen minutes early.”

 _Shit_. Sherlock had been so focused on remaining cool, he’d nearly forgotten he had arrived criminally early. “Er- right. Yeah, I- didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh,” he said, though his face was still crestfallen. “Still, great to see you! I was certain you would come to a later rehearsal. Didn’t expect you at the very first one after our set.”

 _Shit._ John noticed his eagerness.

He shrugged, forcing his eyes to the old, forest green curtain several feet to the left of John. “I had nothing going on so…”

He trailed off pathetically, forcing himself to avoid the quizzical look directed toward him.

“Right,” John said uncertainly. Then, more confidently to Sholto, “I saw Wiggins unloading outside. Philip’s with him. They’ll be in any moment.”

“Not any moment,” called Philip, winded as he walked through the door with the effort of carrying a snare drum from the parking lot into the rehearsal space. “This moment.”

“My bad,” John chuckled, rushing to help Wiggins bring in the bass drum.

Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably in his spot, uncertain of his role in this group of men. He glanced briefly at Sholto, who had taken to toying with his trombone while the lot of his friends brought in the drums. It was as though Sherlock was accompanying a distant acquaintance on an intimate date. He stood between motionlessly still and endlessly fidgeting, uncertain of what to do besides pretend to be preoccupied with his own cuticles.

This was a mistake.

“Oi, what’s this sod doing here?” came a lilting voice to his rescue, a peculiar feeling of warmth filling him at the sensation of hearing a familiar voice. A voice to him- about him, even.

Greg wore a casual smile, approaching Sherlock with an easy grace and a halo of chocolate hair. He was indubitably handsome. He carried his bass without a case as though it were an extension of his hand and not a twelve kilogram hunk of wood. 

_Overcompensating confidence._

He clapped him on the back with his signature grandeur and asked, “What are you doing here, mate?”

_Humour and familiarity used as a crutch._

Sherlock smiled with only half-forced sincerity and answered, “You were there, Gregory. John invited me.”

“Pah!” he said, disgusted. “Gregory was my father.”

“Ah, so you’re Gregory Lestrade Junior?”

_Secretive. Distrusting. Psychological trauma. Youngest child._

He rolled his eyes, a smirk overwhelming his features. “No, actually. My father wasn’t Gregory. Haven’t had anyone challenge me on the claim before.”

Sherlock barked with unexpected laughter, surprised to find himself in a cloud of blissful enjoyment.

He saw John’s head snap up in the background, his hands rapidly releasing their grip on the bass drum to result in a sloppy, ugly reverberation and he was walking over in an instant, a tight smile on his face.

“What’s so funny, then?” he asked, standing a bit too tightly between the two of them.

 _Jealousy_ *. _Continued insomnia. Hiding something._

_*??? Why?_

“He’s exposing my jokes, Johnny,” he said, an arm thrown around John’s shoulders. “Don’t know if he can stick around if he’s going to continue doing that.”

Sherlock’s heart contracted, panic rising like fire in his throat.

“Greg,” he said warningly, “Sherlock is as welcome as you are. It’s about time someone stopped your shenanigans anyhow.”

His heat was light, soaring within him even as he kept his face still.

“My _shenanigans_?” declared Greg with mock indignanty.

Tobias entered silently behind them, face expressionless and his trumpet secure in its case. Not one soul save Wiggins acknowledged his entrance and Sherlock’s heart constricted with the group’s indifference. Philip worked sourly with glances up toward John, Sholto continued to polish an already spotless portion of his trombone, John and Greg were deep in a teasing exchange, and Wiggins stared blankly at a spot on the wall opposite him.

Tobias walked without a greeting and his mind clearly distant from the room around him. Sherlock studied him studiously, his eyes raking from his deformed face to his long sleeves with raised skin peeking out beneath his shirt cuffs.

_Prisoner of War. Orphan. Only child._

He set his trumpet down and set to release it from its case, eye fixed with intention on the latches.

_Captured for three years and… seven months- roughly. Accepted death as inevitable and still bitter it never came._

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice cut through his concentration, his eyes forced off of Tobias to focus on John, concern on his smiling face, his head tilted.

“Er- sorry. Must have… gotten distracted,” said Sherlock pathetically.

John didn’t seem to believe him, but allowed him his lie. “I said-"

And this was a mistake. This was an enormous mistake because there was too much stimulus and how could he focus on words when Philip’s head continued to move toward them, Sholto’s circular motions were continuous, Tobias fidgeted with his cuff, Wiggins remained still, and Greg swayed slightly under John’s arm?

_Jealous and attempting to suppress it. Ashamed of his attraction to John, contemptuous toward Sherlock. Assignment due tomorrow._

_Fixating on what he can control. Shaves twice a day. Cuts his own hair._

_Worried of his bandmates realizing his past. Attempting to hide his branded identification number. Lives alone. Can't reach his back._

_Permanent damage to his brain allows him one solitary point of focus, at this moment its focused on the songs he'll need to recall. Still sober._

_Too many drinks- gin and whiskey- before practice and one full flask in his pocket. Escape mechanism._

And John continued talking to him but it was too much.

This was a mistake.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“You’re feeling alright?” John’s face as a mask of concern and it was more pity than he could bear to be directed toward him.

“Absolutely,” he said, snapping and rolling his eyes.

The simultaneous glance that John and Greg gave one another accompanied by John’s stuttering excuse to walk away left a pit of guilt in Sherlock’s stomach. The two joined the others and Sherlock was alone, guilty, and uncomfortable. He’d never been one for groups of people.

With three minutes to spare, the lot was gathered around in a familiar formation, instruments either in hand or beneath awaiting fingers. They warmed up to the notes of John’s grand piano, his fingers flexing and curling in between notes to prepare for limber motion. They tuned in unison, the horns blaring and Greg’s bass reverberating around the hollow rehearsal space.

John’s voice rose above the din, declaring, “We’re going to practice three standards, the rest will be originals, alright?”

It was a rhetorical question that was answered by Philip. “And which original should we be preparing for the contest?”

John flushed, his fingers mindlessly thumping out a simple major scale as he answered, “To be decided. It's a long way off. For now, let’s focus on the material we have.”

_Liar. Deflecting. Hiding something._

Philip’s negative sentiments were clearly shared as the collective motions were minutely tensed.

“Let’s start with I’ll Walk Alone. It was top of the charts, people will love it,” said John, ignorant of- or perhaps simply ignoring- the displeasure of the band.

“And why is _he_ here?” Philip asked with a directed nod toward Sherlock.

_Student. A stickler for the rules- or rather, a firm believer that everything should make sense._

“To watch.” John said the two words with so much finality that the unsatisfactory answer immediately stopped the glances they’d all been shooting Sherlock. “If we’re ready to play, let’s go from the top.”

They broke out in a rhythm of song, mostly perfect in their execution with his experienced ears perking up at the slightest mistake. He took a seat in an uncomfortable, wooden chair and watched from the side as the lot of them practised, only the occasional glance of curiosity wound with animosity directed toward him from Philip or Tobias.

Sherlock wondered- more than once- whether he should speak up regarding a mistake he was hearing.

_Bass playing a minor transition-_

“Hold on,” John called, fingers lifting decidedly off his keys. “Greg, you’re making this measure minor. Make sure you’re hitting the right transition.”

“Which measure?” Greg called in response, surprisingly serious.

“Thirty-two,” answered John.

“Aye aye, Cap,” he called with a wink to Wiggins and three of them laughed. Sherlock was certain he missed the joke even as he smiled along with them, content to partake in a joy that was not his.

They continued from one song to the next, their music executed perfectly with every note that John supplied. Sherlock found himself in relaxing in his own silence, his ears pricking with incorrect keys and intervals and rhythm which was always followed shortly by John’s corrections. It wasn’t long before John’s corrections subdued Sherlock’s anxieties and he was relaxing even with occasional incorrect music surrounding him. He was relaxed, content in his knowledge that John would quell his concerns.

He stayed an outsider of the experience while enjoying Sholto’s rigid perfection, Tobias’ dark sense of humour, Philip’s frequent eye rolls, Wiggins’ mindless perfection, John’s impatient corrections, and Greg ’s snarky jabs when John corrected anyone other than himself.

The time simply soared. He smiled, chuckled, made mental notes, and got lost in their music. When, after an hour and fifteen minutes, John looked suddenly up to Sherlock, he was caught completely off-guard. As though he hadn’t the slightest recollection why John had invited him there in the first place.

“I say we go through a standard next- as our final song” he declared, eyes dancing to and away from Sherlock as he addressed the rest of them. “What do you think, Sherlock? Wanna join?”

The question was unexpectedly loaded, his body freezing entirely as six pairs of eyes landed upon him. He’d so nearly forgotten the reason he was there at all. John’s words floated through his mind, clear as the moment he’d spoken them in The Crescent.

 _“_ If you like it- if you find yourself glad you came, then you sing along with me on one of the practice songs,” John had proposed. And Sherlock had agreed.

And it brought to his mind the all-important question. Was he enjoying himself?

He knew the answer instinctually. He felt it in his soul- the light joy that filled him, the bliss that had overwhelmed him from the moment they’d begun practising. He’d known as he watched them, their haunting memories leaving them in favour of the music, their camaraderie overwhelming their individual trauma.

And he knew, frozen in that spot, that he needed to answer John one way or the other. Whether or not he joined them was entwined with whether or not he enjoyed himself and John’s eyes were too inquisitive, too loaded. Yet-

“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, I would fancy joining you in a song.”

His heart was thumping out of his chest, the pressure settling with discomfort over his chest. He placed one foot in front of the other in his distant motion forward, a bit too aware of four bewildered stares as he crossed into their circle of familiarity.

“Wait- what? Why is he singing?” asked Philip with a deserved reservation.

“Because he deserves to,” said John sharply, his eyes narrowing upon Philip, daring him to challenge him.

Philip hardened under his stare, his eyes moving rapidly between John and Sherlock. “He didn’t even serve,” spat Philip with bitter resentment, more to the ground than to anyone in particular.

Sherlock flushed, a nightmare come to life as Philip exposed him for the fraud he was.

“That’s a good point,” said Tobias with dawning realization, his previously neutral face growing sceptical. “Why didn’t you?”

Sherlock stared intently upon a patch of floor beneath him, shame overwhelming him as he answered over the beginnings of John’s indignant protests, “I was given a 4-F classification.”

The silence that coated the lot of them was poisonous, humiliation flowing through thick and hot through him. 4-Fs were individuals deemed unfit for service. Sherlock, of course, was more than capable of serving. Mycroft, however, disagreed. He'd been forced to help the war efforts in manners other than military service even when Sherlock had begged Mycroft to let him serve.

Mycroft never changed his status.

Tobias whistled, his eyes downcast as he said dismissively, “You know, most 4-Fs wound up committing suicide.”

“Yes,” snapped Sherlock. “But I am more than a statistic.”

The silence between them was tense and tumultuous. Sholto and Tobias were still, Philip’s eyes wide, John’s eyes a blaze of flame directed toward the culprit of instigation.

“Which standard?” prompted Sherlock through the silence, eager to move forward.

John’s eyes came slowly into focus, calming down and suggesting, “How about First Steps First?”

“Sure,” he agreed with forced glee although his mind was racing to recall the classic jazz standard.

“Everyone knows it?” called John to the rest of them to a chorus of indistinct agreeance, shuffling around their instrument to prepare.

The music swelled around him and his panic rose viciously, the first bar passing him in the blink of an eye. His microphone was distant from him, all reasoning for agreeing to this fleeing him in one swell swoop. He couldn’t have chosen a worse way to “put himself out there.” He didn’t belong here.

He knew he only had three measures to begin singing and he was wholly unaware of why he was here at all. He wasn’t a singer. Sure, he sang and he understood it all, but a singer? They would laugh at him.

Yet the third measure came to a swift close and, content or not, he had to begin. He took a shaking breath and the classic words flowed from him- from an ancient source of bravery he knew not how to consciously access:

“ _Pardon my brashness, dear. Seeing you standing here; dancing's more customary for a soirée. Isn't the band sublime? And as it happens I'm just in the mood to do a two-step. Do step out on the floor with me. I'm new here too, you see. Might you be charmingly coerced? No need to be so shy. Take reassurance, I know how to guide you through the worst steps, first steps first_.”

And before he knew it, the words were out of him, flowing perfectly with the music around him, his mind rebelling violently against it all. His voice was shaking, sliding into his falsetto even when it wasn’t necessary and he was completely unsure why he’d agreed to this at all. But he’d done it- sang the first verse.

The music progressed into the second verse, all thought lost to unabashed anxiety. Soon, the entrance for his next singing portion was passing and his voice was stubbornly silent.

All he could choke out in the midst of judgemental stares was, “I- I don’t remember the bridge.”

The music halted to a stop, Philip’s voice rising above the tense silence of their judgement. “He doesn’t remember the bridge!” He was exasperated, tense, and made it quite clear that Sherlock was an unwelcome addition to their band of veterans.

He wasn’t even a veteran. He didn’t even serve. Why was he here at all if-

“ _Why be all alone when music_ -” prompted John, crooning the next line to the song.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Sherlock rushed to say. His face was hot with embarrassment, his words failing to leave him fast enough. “I don’t know why I’m here, I didn’t mean to offset your practice-”

“No, stop,” said John loudly over Sherlock’s dismissal. Sherlock fell silent, mortified. “It’s my fault.”

“What?” Sherlock said, surprise cutting through his discomfort. “No, it’s not. I-”

“No, it is,” rushed John with a wave of his hand and Sherlock stared at him with an open mouth. “It is,” he continued to assure. “The tempo is all wrong, isn’t it?”

“I-” said Sherlock pathetically, eyes scanning the confused faces of the men around him. “I don’t know. I-”

“No,” interpreted John again with a depth of kindness in his eyes. He looked directly into Sherlock, a light smile reassuring his nerves. “It is. It’s too slow. Hey, Greg- kick up, will ya?”

Greg sighed with relief, his hands resuming their stance over the wooden bass as he said, “Oh, thank God” and began plucking at an accelerated rate for the same tune.

Soon, Wiggins joined in the new tempo with light taps of his symbol and Sherlock was overwhelmed with an unfamiliar emotion as the rest of the band prepared to join in once more- gratitude?

“From the bridge everyone,” John called over the new bass and drum line. “Sherlock- let’s go from _Why be all alone_ , okay?”

Sherlock nodded with shocked approval.

“ _Why be all alone when music calls_ ,” he sang timidly, though feeling more supported and confident than when he began.

“Now we’re cooking!” declared John in the small break of voicing. Sherlock’s heart filled with confidence, excitement blooming strangely within him.

“ _I have nothing more or less to prove-_ ”

“He’s terrific, folks!” called John, fingers simply dancing along the familiar keys beneath him. Sherlock flushed and pushed forward with confidence:

“ _But unless we want a party full of flowers on the wall, someone has to make the very first move_ -” he continued, delighted when John joined in to harmonize flawlessly in the latter half of phrase.

“ _Someone has to make the very first move_ ,” he continued, unable to refrain a smile that warped the brightness of his song when John continued his harmonization. “ _Starting is daunting, true. Trusting in something new, fearful your luck will be reversed. But I have a feeling I'd steady you if you tried. Soon you'll be dancing through rehearsed steps, first steps first. First steps first. First steps first._ ”

They finished with a flourish, Sherlock’s heart racing unexpectedly fast. He gripped the inactive microphone with two hands, his smiling eyes looking at John as they finished together, reading each other's intentions in every small movement of their heads, John even adding a run of vocalization between Sherlock’s breath.

The band finished exactly one beat after their vocalizations finished, the sudden silence surrounding Sherlock into eternity as his mind processed what just happened.

He sang. He _really_ sang- in front of people, too. His mind ran inexplicably to Victor who was always pestering him to do something with his musical ability.

“Bloody hell,” Greg injected into the silence that had settled thick around them all. “Johnny, why didn’t you mention he’s a regular Frank Sinatra?”

“Because Frank Sinatra is a fraud,” said John with a venom that resulted in a series of chuckles.

“Jealousy really isn’t a good colour on you,” said Sherlock, placing his microphone back into its stand.

“I’m not _jealous_ ,” defended John. “He can’t even read music. Plus, he skipped out on the army and sings out of tune constantly.”

“He is flat,” agreed Wiggins casually.

“Jealous,” teased Greg.

John rolled his eyes but otherwise let the comments go. “Sherlock, that was amazing.”

“Thank you,” he answered, timid in the rush of endorphins that raced for dominance of his humility.

“Right, guys? What do we think? We want to invite Sherlock for our next gig? We’ll get better tips for sure.”

Sherlock flushed, unwilling to face the prospect of singing for more than these six men. “No, no- I can’t- No, there’s been a misunder-”

“Oh, stop,” said Tobias. “He’s right. You’re better than John, anyhow.”

“But he hasn’t served,” said Philip sternly. “That’s our thing, right? All veterans.”

“No, he hasn’t served,” conceded John slowly. “But he lost his wife in the war. He’s a widower. He’s as much a part of the wartime experience as any of us.”

Philip groaned and put his saxophone over his shoulder as he said, “I have to disagree.”

“Okay,” said John defiantly, his anger rising to his cheeks. “We’ll take a vote-”

“No, John,” said Sherlock quickly. “I’m not looking to perform anyway. I'm a _detective_. It’s fine.”

“I don’t know,” said Greg with uncharacteristic introspection. “I don’t think we can win without him. He’s much better than you, John.” Then, after a moment, added, “No offence.”

“None taken,” John said with a shrug. And he really meant it. And for one split moment, Sherlock could see it before him: singing with men who served, singing songs in front of people and becoming a part of a whole again. Serving a purpose. Doing something that was _his_. Doing something that wouldn’t remind him of Victor every moment because this was new and exciting. Doing something that made him feel good and… wanted.

“How about a vote, then?” proposed John from behind his piano. “All in favour of Sherlock joining our gig this Friday?”  
All but Sherlock and Philip rose their hands with mumbled “aye”s.

Sherlock fought off an enormous smile until his cheeks hurt with it and John declared, “Alright, then. Sherlock will join us for about half of our set.” Then, directing his words to Sherlock, he continued, “Can you learn all the standards in time?”

“Absolutely.” The guarantee escaped before he intended to agree. It escaped before he would reason himself out of it.

It all moved in a blur after that. He was lost in thoughts that were turning from euphoric to distraught. The band disassembled, they exchanged small talk and packed away their instruments. Sherlock fiddled with the microphone and the hem of his sweater, uncertain where his actions belonged in this throng of dismissal. He didn’t want to go and yet-

“Sherlock,” John called from his piano where he was amassing a pile of unorganized papers. “You okay?

“Er- yeah,” he said, uncertain of how to convert the particular sort of not okay he was. What was he supposed to say? “ _Yes, I’m okay because I’m happy. But no, I’m not okay because I’m happy for the first time since my husband died and I feel guilty about it_.”

No, probably better to avoid saying that.

“You got any plans for the night?” asked John with attempted indifference, though Sherlock heard the loaded undertones.

_Why?_

“Not particularly,” he said with a falsified indifference to match John’s. “You?”

“No.” The word was chopped and John continued fiddling with papers without purpose. “Just going to head to a pub.”

Philip was the last to exit, his gaze narrow and suspicious upon both of them as he took an exit that was too slow, too careful.

“Say,” John inserted with a tone to sound as though the idea had just occurred to him. “Why don’t you join me?”

_Lonely. Desperate to escape the horrors of his past. Strong desire for a kinship._

Sherlock beamed with all the joy he’d accumulated throughout the practice.

“Sure. I think I could swing that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, you didn't think sweet Philip would last, did you? Don't worry, he's just jealous.
> 
> THE VIEWS OF JOHN H. WATSON REGARDING FRANK SINATRA DO NOT REFLECT THE VIEWS SHARED BY THE AUTHOR. ;)
> 
> Sometimes, when you try to research something, the universe rebels against you. Therefore, I gave up trying to figure out what the hell Britain's "classified unfit to serve" was during WWII and used the American rake instead. 4-F was unfit to serve and it is true that a large majority ended up committing suicide. It is, in fact, the classification Steve Rogers gets at the beginning of Captain America. I'm claiming artistic liberty, I suppose. 
> 
> If you're enjoying this AU, please consider reading the Viclock one-shot I wrote called [Before You Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662877) (Rating: Explicit). It's based on this fic and takes place the night before Victor leaves for good.  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock and Victor have one last night of sensational passion together before Victor is shipped off to fight in the war.


	9. Lead the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock bond over miscommunication, uncertainty, and a whole lot of alcohol.

John slammed the tray of shots down a bit more forcefully than perhaps was necessary. His nerves were ordering his hands to shake, his rational mind relieved when the clash didn’t appear to phase Sherlock in the slightest. He did, however, raise one eyebrow at him through his icy demeanour.

“Ten shots?” Sherlock questioned.

The place was small and intimate with enough of a crowd to allow for privacy in their conversation but without a large number of people that would forbid peace. It sat in a perfect medium and John mentally gave himself props for choosing such a perfect environment for this outing.

“For me,” John shrugged, attempting to match the cool indifference being directed toward him. “Unless you want one.”

“Or five?”

John smiled through his puzzlement, more than content to share. Still, frustration mingled with confusion within him at the behaviour displayed by Sherlock thus far. His demeanour during practice had been standoffish, even rude when John had attempted conversation. Yet he’d accepted John’s offer to go out. Now he maintained a distant connection while offering to partake in shots. It was throwing him, this uncertainty. Furthermore, he was uncertain how to behave in return.

If John were a bit more like Sherlock, maybe he could solve the case of what was going through his companion’s mind.

“Five shots? You’re robbing me blind,” John teased.

“Oh, please,” Sherlock scoffed. “I’m saving you.”

“ _Saving me?_ ”

“Quite. You can’t take ten shots by yourself,” he said with the tone of someone who knew his words were fact. “Alcohol poisoning, Watson.”

John gawked at him, unable to keep a disbelieving smile off of his face. “You can’t be serious?”

When Sherlock maintained a cocky appearance, arms crossed and eyebrow cocked, John shook his head at him and said, “I was in the Army, Sherlock. The _army_.” When Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, John’s resolve steeled and he pulled the tray toward him. “I can handle my alcohol just fine, thank you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said rolling his eyes slightly, his arms folding over one another. “You’re going to throw up, pass out, or worse. The alcohol content before you combined with your height, weight, and lack of food will accumulate to-”

“Yeah, yeah,” John interrupted, waving a hand to dismiss his concerns. “Watch me.”

“ _John_ ,” he reprimanded, voice suddenly stern. No challenge was more irrefutable than someone else's doubt and Sherlock’s denial in his ability was a flame in his chest.

He downed the first shot, the familiar burn making its way down his throat. He picked up the second and took it as well, maintaining eye contact with an incredulous Sherlock.

“Fine,” Sherlock said with sudden resolve, taking a shot glass in each hand and drinking them simultaneously. His face twisted as it went down, his mouth downturned in distaste even when he slammed the glasses back onto the table. “If you do a shot, I do a shot.”

 _Damn it._ Checkmate.

Because Sherlock knew- he somehow _knew_ that John would never allow Sherlock to endure ten consecutive shots. It was an unhealthy challenge he would embrace happily himself but would be mortified if matched by his companion.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, correctly interpreting John’s brooding silence.

“You dangerous, clever man,” John said through a tight smirk. Sherlock was leaning back in his chair, his legs extending for miles to the floor while John’s own legs needed to rest on the tall chair’s wooden bar. And in Sherlock’s hooded, mischievous eyes, John found the deserved shame he should have felt from the beginning of their evening.

John forced his eyes away, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips in a betrayal of his thoughts. He coughed, struggling to find something to say in this suddenly uncomfortable silence when Sherlock spoke in a rush of words, “So tell me about this contest?”

“Oh,” he said, taken aback but grateful for the change in subject. Oh, how he wanted another shot. Oh, how he knew Sherlock shouldn’t have a third so quickly. “It’s a competition for bands in Britain to write a song to honour the returned men in uniform.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. There’s a preliminary round in less than two months. One band from each county in Britain will be selected to continue on.”

“And then?”

“Then each winning band goes to London for the finals.”

“And the winner gets?”

 _Fame. Glory. Recognition._ “A feature in an upcoming film. A legacy that will outlive us all.”

“And is it worth it?”

The question surprised him. Partially for the interest Sherlock now showed in him and partially for the strangeness of the inquiry. His finger itched toward another shot, the desire unstoppable within him. “What do you mean?”

“The patience the band demands,” Sherlock said, eyes intent upon him, scanning him. “The time requirement. The effort of writing the music. Forcing yourself to relive the war experience by seeing the struggles of the others. Will it be worth it?”

And here, Sherlock Holmes, such a brilliant man, was desperately missing the most critical piece of information. John struggled to find words that wouldn’t come out as condescending.

“The band is not a burden. It’s… therapy. It doesn’t demand patience. It demands focus. It offers an escape from the thoughts that can feel all-consuming. The effort of writing arrangements is also a relief, a method of releasing inner-tension.”

“And seeing the other men suffer? Greg’s necessity to drink to simply make it through the way? Philip’s obsession with control? Wiggins’ debilitating brain damage? These reminders of the war and its impact don’t haunt you?”

“I…” Words failed him. He looked down at the table, focusing intently upon how to express the manner in which Sherlock was incorrect. “No. They’re not reminders of the war. They are men who served but that’s not all they are. Their struggles are far more a comfort than a burden. Through it all, our problems get set aside in favour of a common goal. A purpose outside the war or our history. The band doesn’t rely on our experiences being relevant. We look around and see other guys who are going through the same thing but… the music is helpful. It’s good to be around the lot of them.”

Sherlock was silent, words visibly churning. He drummed his fingers for a moment before reaching for another shot and drinking the amber whiskey to fuel his thought. John, relieved, followed suit.

Face still twisted with displeasure of the alcohol rushing down him, Sherlock let out a tight “Ah,” spinning the shot glass between his fingers but remaining quiet.

“You feelin’ alright?” John asked after the silence spread between them to an uncomfortable length, leaning slightly to try to catch his gaze but failing.

“Yes,” he said quite unconvincingly. Then he did look up, a layer of his icy demeanour seeming to melt away before him. “I need to thank you, John.”

“T-Thank me?” he stuttered because he’d somehow forgotten how captivating it is to be caught under those eyes.

“Yes.” The heat of the whiskey was burning within him, a sense of lightness settling over him like a slow, slow pour of honey. Perhaps this, after all, was the source of Sherlock’s melting ice. Whatever was warming those eyes upon him, John was grateful. “Somehow, through all the grief and inability to return to normalcy, I find myself missing what it is to know a person.”

It was a sentiment heavy on his ears, his cheeks flooding with red-hot delight. “Oh, posh,” he deflected. “You seem to know everyone.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response. “No, not like that.”

“How do you mean, then?”

They looked at one another for a long moment, John unable to resist fidgeting with his lips with his teeth. Sherlock appeared to be internally struggling, his eyes moving rapidly between John’s two.

“Deductions,” he said finally, seeming to judge John worthy of knowing him in return. “That’s all they are. I see you and see a musician and insomniac. I can know you are haunted by the war, your childhood was less than perfect, your brother isn’t talking to you, and you’re overdue for a dental appointment.”

“How-”

Sherlock held up a finger, a patient silencer to John’s questions. “What I _don’t_ know, John, is why.” It settled in slowly, realization seeping in as he continued to explain: “I know things about you. I know many things about many people. But it stems from visual evidence, not from any sort of connection or confidence. That lack of  intimacy has left me worse for wear and it’s not anything I was necessarily aware of until this evening.”

“I can understand that,” John spoke, hoarse and speaking to the air more than Sherlock. Still, Sherlock heard and they shared a fourth shot without needing to discuss it.

In the moment of insight, John felt a surge of a long-dormant bravery, his will requiring less convincing than usual to persist through barriers that attempted to prevent him from continuing forward.

“So are you going to tell me the truth?” he asked with unfelt confidence. “About what you did during the war?”

Sherlock smirked at the table. “Smart man.”

“Just realizing that now?”

“No.” The sincerity he answered with stunned John, body freezing until Sherlock released him with a continued explanation. “I really was given a 4-F classification. That part was true.”

“Wha-Why?” John asked, genuinely floored. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing at all,” he laughed. “I told you- my brother has influence in all government matters. To boot, he happens to be particularly meddlesome. He marked me as a 4-F in the official records the moment he caught wind of the war- in 1934.”

John’s stomach churned, unsure whether or not to believe Sherlock and his cynical smile. “1934? Are you serious?”

“I will say this but once: do not underestimate how many pies my brother has his fat fingers in.”

There was nothing to do but laugh. Through the insanity, through the unlikely truth of it, through the tense knowledge, they could only laugh. Sherlock’s laugh was a deep, reverberating thing, warm enough to heat the space between them.

“So you just stayed home?” asked John, hating the edge of judgement that seeped into his words.

“Please, you insult me,” he said, though his playful expression was at odds with his words. “I worked with my brother on certain classified projects- intercepting messages and attempting to decode the secret language, that sort of thing. I worked briefly on some undercover diplomatic work, posing as my brother while he worked unsuspected in other sectors.”

“Wow.” It was an unsatisfactory response, yet the only one John could muster. He was brilliant. Really, truly, astonishingly brilliant.

The four shots were racing through his veins now, his focus shifting without his will and his fingers tingling with acknowledgement of his state. He was certain his inebriation was plastered on his face for Sherlock to read as he pleased. Sherlock, on the other hand, appeared merely flushed, eyes perhaps tighter than before.

There was a chance John had underestimated Sherlock in this game of drinks.

“Wow, indeed,” Sherlock said, punctuated with a smooth, flinch-free consumption of his fifth and final shot that John mirrored with a goofy grin he couldn’t fight away. “Now I can ask you a question, yeah?”

“If you wish.”

“How did you meet Victor?”

Something crude, selfish, and malevolent dropped deep within John. It twisted into a pang of profound guilt, a bitter resentment because of course- _of course_ \- he wanted to talk about Victor. Of course that’s what he wanted to talk about. Of course that’s the reason he was drawn to spending time with John at all. Of course.

And he felt a proper idiot to have thought anything resembling a friendship could have been blooming outside of their common connection in Victor.

“Basic training,” he said, throat tight and fighting to maintain an easy mask.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to and from John, his discomfort clear. “John,” he said slowly, leaning back slightly- no, leaning _away_ slightly. “We don’t need to talk about him-”

“No!” he said, his tone harsh and far too loud and oh God, was the room trembling? “No, it’s f-fine. Really.” His words were thin and insincere in his own ears.

“Your insomnia,” Sherlock said slowly, leaning forward to rest his chin on his propped up arm. “It’s related, isn’t it? To Victor, that is?”

_GET OUT!_

John felt rather like he was drowning a bit. His mind was hazy with the influence of five shots and he was ambushed, memories flooding around him until it was all he could see, breath, hear-

“Er- a bit.”

“John.” His name cut through the panic, focus aligning slowly on the vibrant eyes searching him from across the table. “It’s fine.” His voice was calm, sincere. “We don’t need to talk about him.” He was criminally beautiful. “I only thought of myself when I asked.”

“No, you- you have the right,” he choked out. “I just- I’m not ready. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Injected in those two words was a world of understanding that stabilized the quivering world beneath him.

Who was this Sherlock Holmes who was cold and distant as well as warm and compassionate?

“Thank you.”

“Do you want to know who in this pub still wets the bed?” Sherlock asked, voice low and conspiratory in a blatant but intriguing effort to change the subject.

“I’m insulted you even need to ask,” John said, amazed how rapidly he was beginning to feel the small tug of a smile.

Sherlock lifted a lazy finger to point at beautiful woman sipping on a bloody mary behind John in a booth seven seats down from them. Her long, brunette hair was pulled into a elegant updo that didn’t suit the atmosphere of the grungy pub. John gawked at her, wondering if Sherlock was making a joke.

The woman caught John staring, flashing a smile of vivid teeth and John turned rapidly, his head downcast in embarrassment. He hadn’t intended to stare.

“She’s interested,” Sherlock noted casually, his tone light and observant.

“Yeah, well, I’m not,” John whispered, embarrassment rushing hot inside him.

Sherlock slid his gaze between John and the woman before settling on John and releasing a soft “Ah,” that was so damned informed that John’s humiliation turned into something worse, something poisonous.

“Not- Not because- No,” John sputtered, wishing with every ounce of him that the alcohol wasn’t causing his brain to feel so slippery. Sherlock was affronted and still, he couldn’t refrain from barreling forward with his denial. “She’s a _bed wetter_ , Sherlock. That’s why.”

“Okay. New idea,” said Sherlock, standing up in one fluid motion. John panicked for a moment, certain he was getting up to leave when Sherlock smiled wryly and disproved every assumption within him. “Time for a game. You can handle it?”

“A game?”

“A drinking game.”

Half of John’s mouth curled into an uncertain grin. “You’re ready for more?”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock scoffed. “I’ve had much more intense substances than shots of whiskey- which we will not be repeating. It’s rum or it’s nothing.”

_Was that a wink?_

Sherlock sauntered off to refresh their beverages, John’s heart sick with the whiplash of emotions. Perhaps it was cruel to tease himself this way. Perhaps it was cruel to Sherlock to befriend him when there was so much left to confess. Perhaps it was cruel to both of them.

John repressed a sickened look when Sherlock approached with a tray holding ten more shots on it. He ignored the rising panic in the back of his mind since the tab would now be exceeding 9.70 pounds- nearly more than he carried in his pocket- from the current total of 20 ordered shots.

“You can’t be serious?” John asked, a disbelieving chuckle bubbling up through his shock.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow in a challenging manner, saying, “If I recall correctly, you were more than ready to take ten shots by yourself.”

Damn. “As I recall, you were against that whole-”

“Plus,” he interrupted, “these aren’t necessarily to split evenly.”

His curiosity was sufficiently piqued. “Go on.”

“Drinking game. If you take a shot, I will confess something about myself that few people are aware of. If I take a shot, you must reciprocate.”

John considered the proposition. _Pros: learning more about Sherlock. Cons: Sherlock learning more about you._

Still, the pros were compelling.

“Deal.”

They reached for a glass at the same time, realizing simultaneously what the other was doing and reaching faster, the drinks positively flying off the tray and down their throats. Yet Sherlock’s glass was the first to hit the table upside down, a grin of exuberant victory painted across his angular face.

“Gotcha!” he proclaimed.

“Fine,” John laughed. “I’ll go first- but I still _did_ take a shot.”

John raked his mind for something to share. It must be a relative secret- something few people knew. Yet it couldn’t be something that _nobody_ knew- nothing too intimate.

“I would love to go back to school,” he confessed. “Medical school, specifically. Always fancied being a doctor.”

Sherlock looked genuinely pleased, eyes sparkling. “A doctor? What sort?”

“Surgeon.”

“And why’s that?”

_GET OUT!_

“As per the rules, I don’t believe I need to answer that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but his mouth still twitched into something to betray him. “Fine. My turn, yeah?”

“I certainly didn’t take that shot for fun.”

“Feeling it now, are you, Doctor?”

“Piss off,” John laughed.

“I write songs.” Sherlock was flushed, cheeks blazing from the admission- though perhaps he was feeling the alcohol more than he’d been letting on.

“Pardon?”

“That's my confession for your shot. I- I write songs. Compose, I should say. I don’t just… sit around writing poetry. I find it thrilling, putting mixed pieces together in a cohesive unit. It… is nice,” he finished, wincing as though it were the most humiliating thing he could have admitted.

“I think that’s brilliant,” John said, resisting the urge to praise this revelation until the sun dawned upon them both. “I bet you’re brilliant at it, too.”

Sherlock shrugged, eyes set upon the table, an obvious ploy to avoid John’s attentive look.

Sherlock’s long fingers rapped along the table thrice before they extended to reach the tray of shots. Anticipating John’s mirroring motion, his hand flew up to block John, wagging a finger at him.

“No, no,” he said coyly. “Hold on.”

John put his hands up in mock surrender and watched as Sherlock picked up one shot glass with clear liquid to his lips, throwing it back and making no response face when it went down. He slammed it upside down on the table again and, before John could get a word in edgewise, plucked up a second glass. Then a third.

“Blood hell, Sherlock!” he exclaimed, appalled at the act of insanity. “What are you thinking?!”

“Playing the game, John,” he said matter of factly, a finger rising to the corner of his lip to wipe away the smallest of drops that had made its way to his skin.

If John wasn’t already sitting, his knees would have buckled from how provocative he looked doing it.

“Three little-known facts. Go.”

John picked up a glass, maintaining eye contact as he said, “One, I’m very competitive.”

Shot.

“Two, my father was a proper arsehole.”

Shot.

“Three, Greg would have us both beat in this game.”

Shot.

“Ha-ha,” Sherlock said dryly, shaking his head but John knew- he _knew_ \- that he was repressing a smile. “Very funny. But that third one does not qualify and I would argue the first was also unsatisfactory. After all, I deduced your competitiveness ages ago.”

“Ages ago?” John barked, unable to stop a howling laugh. “We’ve known each other all of three weeks, Sherlock.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “Three weeks ago, then. Still, I already knew.”

“ _Fine_ ,” John groaned, wracking his brain for a fact- two of them- that would satisfy him. “I’ve always dreamed of living in the heart of London.”

“And what of London appeals to you?”

“I guess it’s the rush, the activity. There’s so much life. There’s so much to do, so much outside of yourself.”

Sherlock seemed to be about to ask a second question but settled for looking at John intently for a long, impossibly long moment. “One more,” he finally prompted after what felt like ages of deliberation.

John’s train of thought was aggressively pushed off its tracks when a figure walked through the door of the pub. The outside air briefly blew her long, sandy blonde hair around her face, but impatient hands pushed the wisps away from her face as she stumbled a few feet to take a seat directly at the bar.

“One more?” John asked, unable to remove his eyes off of the woman. “Alright; see that woman who just walked in?”

“Yeah?” Sherlock asked, turned around in the booth to face her and clearly perplexed.

“I used to go steady with her.”

Sherlock snapped back around quickly, a mixture of alarm and delight on his face. It was a melange that surprised John.

“Her? That woman? You’re certain?” Sherlock asked rapidly, suddenly intense, suddenly leaning in.

“I- Yes? What are you- _yes_ , Blimey Sherlock what the hell?” he asked ask Sherlock moved closer- too close- and nearly gripped John’s arm from across the table.

“That woman,” he said, practically bouncing in his seat, “was a client. Just a few hours after yourself, actually.”

Whatever he’d been expecting, it certainly hadn’t been that. “Mary?” he practically shouted, ducking down in the booth as her head turned to the source of her name. Then, in a whisper, “Why was Mary going to hire a private detective?”

“That’s the thing,” he hissed, still bouncing in his seat. “She wouldn’t tell me. She was being so secretive, she came and chickened out of telling me her case. I knew it was good though- probably involving her missing husband.”

“Her husband?” John repeated in disbelief. “What happened-”

“I told you,” Sherlock said exasperated. “I don’t _know_. But here’s the real question: what is she doing flirting with that man when her husband is supposed to be missing?”

And sure enough, Mary was leaning into a well-dressed gentleman, her fingers trailing along his wrist in dancing motions. It was the brazen display of affection that made John realize just how close Sherlock was. So close, in fact, that John could smell the rum on his breath. His eyes were wide and imploring, his pupils wide with exhilaration and John was certain he would fall into them.

“How about a change of pace?” Sherlock said, voice as smooth as velvet and his excitement as tangible as this table beneath him. “How about an adventure?”

John’s heart was fluttering in him, Sherlock’s excitement contagious.

“Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: That conventionally attractive woman is interested in you  
> John: I'm not  
> Sherlock: ah he's GAY!  
> John: I AM NOT GAY  
> Sherlock: okay drinking game to learn more about John because I need to UNDERSTAND  
> (in case you were wondering what Sherlock's POV was during that portion.)
> 
> John is certain Sherlock would rather be somewhere else and Sherlock is certain that John won't like the Real Sherlock so they're both awkward and trying to be far cooler than they are. Poor boys.   
> Sometimes you just gotta write drunken Johnlock going on cases. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I promise promise promise Mary's part in this fic will be short-lived and minor. She isn't even going to resemble any aspect of BBC Mary. Just using the name, essentially. (I almost just made the woman an OC but why not lean into the names available in canon?)


	10. Oh, What A Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective and the soldier trail a murder suspect around town while keeping themselves occupied with the company of each other.

There are times, following the consumption of a decent amount of alcohol- of which nine shots certainly qualified- that a person doesn’t know how much they’re impacted until they stand up.

Such an event occurred to John the moment he rose from his table after listening to Sherlock’s instructions. All at once, the floor beneath him was tilting, his focus shifting in kaleidoscopic patterns.

John gripped sloppily at the edge of their booth table, his eyes falling in a lame attempt to centre him.

“Jeepers,” he groaned, his other hand rising to rub at his eyes. “Feeling those shots now.”

“Are you?” Sherlock inquired, his voice thick with infuriating superiority. “I thought you were in the ar _my_.”

“Shove off,” he said, lowering his hand from his eyes to his mouth to suppress a bubbling laugh. “I said I’m feeling it, not that I’m incapable of handling it.”

“Good, now go!”

John walked over to the bar with what he sincerely hoped was an easy, steady walk. Within just a few feet of Mary but pretending not to notice her, he called for another shot- a shot he desperately wished he wouldn’t actually need to take. It was quite enough for the world to spin without needing to throw up.

In his peripheral vision, he saw a sweep of blonde hair and assumed- hoped- she was looking at him. Her eyes were narrowed, she was leaning closer, possibly wondering “ _Is that-?_ ” John obliged her curiosity, turning just slightly to stare at a damp spot on the wall that was nearer her direction.

“John?”

_Success._

He turned to her, keeping his face completely neutral, perhaps a bit perplexed and waiting the smallest of seconds before pretending that realization was dawning on him.

“Oh my God, Mary?” he asked, a half-smile crawling along the expanse of his cheeks.

“As I live and breath,” she said, shamelessly abandoning her flirting adventures with the other nondescript man who turned away dismayed. Poor bloke. Instead, her whole body was directed toward John, a bright and wide smile threatening to blind him. “I can’t believe you’re here. It’s been ages.”

“Had a bit of service to take care of,” he said in way of response, pretending to be pleased to find himself talking to her.

“Oh dear,” she said, extending an arm to him though he stood slightly too far away for her to reach.

 _Into the fray_.

Taking her cue, he slipped into the seat next to her, trying with everything in him to not slur his words, not to misspeak, not to expose his intentions. He saw Sherlock slip into a seat that Mary now had her back to, within earshot so long as the man between them didn’t begin to speak.

“You’ve been back for how long now?” she asked, head tilting.

“Just about four months now.”

“I reckon things are starting to feel normal again, yeah? Back to singing? Just like it was before?”

And this infuriating lack of empathy, awareness, or perspective was the reason he broke up with her in the first place.

“No, Mary,” he said, willing his temper to die. “None of it can ever go back to how it was before.” Her smile dropped, her body leaning from him ever so slightly and he panicked, needing to do this right for Sherlock. “But enough about me,” he said, false cheer oozing from him. “Tell me about you! How are you? What have you been doing?”

“Nothing nearly as interesting,” she said, though colour rose to her cheeks to reveal her pleasure in the change of topic. “I did get married!”

“Oh! Then congratulations are in order, no?”

He deserves a damned award for acting this well while he was so far gone.

Or was he convinced of his own believability because he was so far gone?

“Afraid not,” she said with a shake of her head. “He’s no longer in the picture.”

“Oh Mary, I am so sorry to hear that.”

She shrugged, eyes sweeping around the bar before landing upon John’s. “I try not to think about it. But I have to say, I am mighty pleased to see you here.”

And her hand was on top of his forearm, thumb stroking in slow, swirling motions. John looked quickly down at the contact, looking up bewildered to see her eyes wide and innocent.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked, voice low enough for him to need to lean in to hear her.

“Always,” he returned with his closest impression of a sultry tone.

“I had a few drinks before this one here,” she giggled, drink rattling in her gesturing hand. “And going by the smell of your breath, so have you.”

He gulped, opting for silence and hoping eye contact would answer for him.

“And I’ve missed you.”

Shit. When he and Sherlock had come up with the brilliant idea of John flirting with Mary to try to find out information, this possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

“Kiss me,” she breathed, and only now did his intoxicated brain realize that yes, she reeked of hard liquor.

And her lips were suddenly on his and _shit_ they had definitely not discussed this and _oh God_ why did his mind gone directly to Sherlock when a woman had kissed him? He was frozen, unsure of what to do with any of his limbs, unaware of whether his eyes had fallen shut on his own accord or if he’d shut them intentionally?

If she noticed that he remained still, she gave no indication of it. She moved further forward in her seat, her arms wrapping around him to-

“ _BLOODY HELL-_ ” John proclaimed when a wave of frigid water crashed over him, unexpected droplets falling down his face and neck, seeping into the fabric of his shirt and stunning his body and mind away from the nightmare kiss.

“Oh dear,” came a familiar baritone voice to his right. “Oh, sir, ma’am, I am so sorry. I am _so_ sorry! Please, let me help you!”

He opened his eyes, flinching away from of the water still dripping down from his hairline and brow and saw Sherlock’s tall frame scrambling around them apologetically. Clumsy hands patted at his face, the sharp motions doing more harm than good. Mary was worse for wear, her face still twisted in outraged shock.

Through his furious disbelief at Sherlock, he saw something fade in Mary’s eyes. Whether it was the fact that this strange man had ruined the mood or that the frozen surprise had sobered her up a bit as it had John, she looked distinctly cold.

“Oi, back off,” he said, shoving Sherlock out of the way as though he actually were some stranger who had just spilt water all over him.

He escaped to the washroom with murmured apologies to Mary, dabbing at his face and button-up with a towel, refusing to look up when Sherlock walked in positively leaping.

“Brilliant! Positively brilliant!” he proclaimed, a ridiculous child excited in a candy store.

John glowered at him, refusing to match his joy even though his smile was doing things to him.

“And what the bloody hell was that about?” he asked, keeping his tone even.

“What was what about?” Sherlock asked, not sounding nearly convincing enough.

John simply continued to look at him, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

“Well the case had gone a bit off track, hadn’t it?” Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes as though he were in the right. “The plan was flirt to get information, John. The plan was not to seduce her and take her home. You were compromising any promise of that lead.”

“I wasn’t going to- what lead?”

“About her husband.”

“What about him?”

“She said ‘he’s no longer around.’ That terminology, John. It’s something divorced or widowed people say. It implies he’s gone permanently. Now tell me, why would a woman whose husband has been missing less than a month and has, in no capacity, been presumed or declared dead use that verbiage? Especially someone who clearly craves attention so badly: what could garner more attention than a missing husband? A dead husband would accumulate sympathy, certainly. But it also calls for distance from those around you. A missing husband? It’s drama and attention that could be dragged on for months, years even.”

There were so many points John wanted to argue or question, but he settled on, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s a case! A real, bonafide case! I’ve been starved John- starved and losing my mind.”

“You think she’s a suspect?”

“I think she knows more than she’s saying.”

“So what now?” John asked slowly.

“Now we follow her. If you stay in here long enough, eventually she will leave from irritation and impatience-”

“We?”

“Yes, you and me.”

“You want me to come with you?”

Sherlock smiled, a dazzling smile that illuminated his face and the room and the whole world with it. “We’re already done your thing, John- the band. Now we do mine.”

 

**One hour later: 11 PM**

Sherlock was right- Sherlock was always right. It took time- roughly twenty minutes- but eventually, Mary grew bored. The gentleman who she’d been courting before John had left and she had no luck with any other gentleman in the place. All this according to Sherlock since John had waited in the washroom all the while.

They followed her 1.5 kilometres to another bar (stumbling over their own feet only thrice between the two of them) and sat at a table that was more than sufficiently hidden from her view. She continued her attempts to ensnare a mate, her booze-driven mind unaware that the two men had eyes on her.

John sat out of her view with his back to her, of course, in case she scanned her environment and saw him again. Sherlock, however, was certain she would not recognize him as the culprit who sloshed an entire glass of water all over her.

Sherlock sat within eyesight, unconcerned with hearing any of her banter. When John had asked whether or not they would sit closer, Sherlock had explained confidently that nothing she would share with these strangers would be of importance. Rather, they were better off observing and following in search of a lead.

It wasn’t long before their active case took a backseat in both of their minds. While Mary behaved in a way that Sherlock described as “boring,” the two men kept themselves amused until she did something “not boring” by challenging Sherlock to deduce random facts of the people around them. The game left them both red in the face from laughter, an easy bond between them that relieved the ache in their hearts.

Their endless fits of giggles were only partially due to the 13.5 oz of hard liquor in their veins.

“Okay, what about him?” John prompted, laughing between fingers that were attempting to hide a flowing smile.

Sherlock squinted in the direction John was pointing, mouth twisting for a moment before declaring, “Cheating on his wife, wearing his wife’s makeup, and recently lost weight- probably because he started having affairs.”

“Bullshit!” John called, though jubilant due to his friend’s brilliance.

“Slight tan lines around his ring finger, John, but upheld. The ring is on during the day but not at night. He keeps it on his person as evidenced by the slight bump in his chest pocket in the event he needs to put it on with a moment’s notice. The discolouration of his face could be a genetic result, but the tan smudge on his collar suggests makeup is the source. Finally, his clothes are too big for him while he remains otherwise effortlessly groomed. He is stylish yet his clothes are big- recent weight loss.”

“You know, it sounds so easy when you explain it all like that,” he said, just drunk enough to be unable to prevent the dreamy note of admiration in his voice.

“Because it _is_ easy, John,” he said, words slurred. “You just need to pay attention.”

“Okay,” declared John, sitting upright and and slamming his hand on the table with stinging force. “Choose a person- any person!”

“Mary.”

They looked together around the corner, Mary’s slight figure leaning into a man as her hair fell in swirling curtains around her. This new bar was noiser, more lively.

“Someone easy,” John protested, frown present as he scanned her for anything to deduce.

“She is.”

“If she’s so easy then why are we still on the case?”

He’d meant it teasingly, but Sherlock smiled knowingly, shrugging to concede and said, “Fine, how about her?”

He gestured to a woman decorated from head to toe in decadent apparel. Brilliant pearls shone on her chest and wrists, her heels perfectly pointed, her dress a royal blue to compliment her chocolate brown hair.

“She’s… showing off?” ventured John, trying desperately to imitate the train of thought that Sherlock’s mind climbed aboard to make these deduction. “She’s dressed up, in a group of only women?”

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled, the “s” coming out in a hiss. “Physical evidence is your basis. It’s not a deduction, however.”

“Then how-”

“What does it _mean_?” She’s dressed up, she’s with women. Why? What else do you see?”

He strained his eyes, praying to the high heavens that she wouldn’t catch him leering too aggressively. “She’s not married.”

“And? What of her dress?”

“It’s… blue?” he proposed lamely.

Sherlock smiled with infuriating patience. “Perfectly sound observation but I was hoping you’d go deeper.”

He focused on the dress: Blue, past the knee, plunging neckline, stitched-

“Stitched!” he sputtered far too loudly. “It’s been sewn- Blimey, in two or three places? You can see where it ripped.”

Sherlock’s smile shone like the sun upon John, filling him with a pleasant warmth. “Excellent, Watson. What else do you see?”

John rather figured he knew what he was looking for now: not just what she was wearing, but the state of what she was wearing. His eyes flew to her pearls, shining in the dim light. Yet-

“Are her pearls… real?”

“Excellent intuition,” praised Sherlock and John’s insides flipped with joy. “No, they are not. One more, John.”

 _One more thing, one more thing_ … John scanned her shoes, which appeared in perfect condition. Her fingernails were perfectly trimmed, her hair a cascade of movie-star curls. But her stockings…

“Her stockings…” John ejected cautiously. “They’re painted on, aren’t they?”

Sherlock nodded with a delirious smile upon his face, eyes simply sparkling with pride. “Very good, John. Now what does it all mean? Talk through it.”

John focused intently upon the facts. “She’s dressed nicely on the surface but her dress is old, her stockings painted on, and her jewelry. So... she’s faking it.”

“Good.”

“She’s with women around her own age, though. She’s not talking to men so she’s not trying to rise above her station.”

“Good.”

“But the dress _is_ nice, it’s just been patched up.”

“Excellent.”

It clicked all at once, pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t known the final product of until this moment. In a rush of words, he concluded, “She’s from money- or she used to be. The dress is an old relic from those days. And the fake pearls must have cost less than regular cleaning of her old ones would, right? She can’t afford new stockings but old ones ripped. Everything else- her hair, her nails, her shoes, are a product of beauty supplies she owned from before she lost her money. She’s trying to keep up with appearances for her friends- trying to pretend she still has the means to dress like that.”

“Conclusion?”

“She’s broke and trying to hide it. Her friends don’t know- she’s trying to maintain her place in society.”

Sherlock smiled, a haze of drunken joy painted along his long, angular face. “Not bad.”

Considering John had consumed nine shots within 20 minutes a bit over an hour ago, it was a small miracle that he was merely tipsy, perhaps slightly drunk. The combination of the splash of water, the high of the chase, the sneaking around, and the passage of time had seemed to clear his head, to lessen the impact of the alcohol on his mind. Still, the world’s edges were blurred, John’s helpless heart refusing to heed caution.

It was evident that Sherlock, too, was surprisingly sober. Though John could tell the man wasn’t completely unaffected because of the lazy smile that had cemented itself on his regularly guarded face.

“Not bad?” John challenged, mock outraged. “That was amazing!”

Sherlock looked nearly ready to disagree, to argue against John’s brilliance, but instead he nodded and solemnly agreed, “Yes, that was quite impressive. Not bad at all for your first go.”

Sherlock’s praise was crisp water in a drought, the first bite of food for a starving man, a warm shower after a freezing outing. It brought blood rushing to his cheeks, a thrilling beating in his chest providing him with an foreign level of joy.

“I’ll get better,” he said shyly, eyes on the table as Sherlock’s shone on him.

“Let’s hope so,” Sherlock responded, his gaze torn suddenly by a motion to his left. John turned to see Mary waltzing away, toward the door. “Because our suspect is leaving and it’s a case that requires two minds.”

John was hastily rising, watching a blur of blonde hair make its way to the door. “I’m certain your mind could sufficiently solve this case.”

“Don’t spew nonsense, John. Of course I need your help. You know her personally, after all.”

“Barely.”

“Do you often kiss women you barely know?”

Was it his imagination or were the words loaded with animosity?

John flushed, the both of them making their way through the crowd after Mary. “And how, exactly, is following Mary all across town going to help?” he deflected.

“It will.”

 

**Another hour later: Past Midnight**

Of all the things for a woman to do on the streets of Cardiff at night, walking alone with no provisions was one of the most foolish. The pair of them trailed her at a safe distance, keeping quiet despite frequent giggles that threatened to alert her to their presence. The chatted beneath their breaths, the time slipping away without a care. There was no clock to maintain a grip on the passage of time, but if there had been, neither would have believed that they’d passed an hour like this: trailing a client/suspect in the shadows of the city while she wandered aimlessly and they goofed off.

The effects of their shared shots were now diminished to next to nothing, though the high of their shared exhilaration- in the case and in their conversations- kept them unnaturally giddy. It was true that neither of them could recall the last time they’d felt quite so sincerely happy.

John’s complete and utter happiness left him completely terrified when, without warning, Sherlock gripped the collar of John’s shirt and pulled him forcefully into an opening between two buildings on 97th Avenue. The alleyway wafted the stench of grime to his nose and would have been barely big enough to allow for one person. For one truly bewildering second, John truly believed that Sherlock was going to kiss him. To entwine his fingers in John’s shirt, push him against the wall, lean his head down, and press cold lips against John’s own.

He was dizzy with the thought, deliriously attempting to grasp what was happening as Sherlock’s hand rose to John’s mouth, silencing the many protests that had been inadvertently escaping John’s mouth

“Shh,” he hissed, so softly it was floating on a breath. “She stopped and she’s not alone.”

John’s eyes were wide toward Sherlock, breathing through his nose, and hyper-aware of Sherlock’s fingers pressed against his lips. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t remember who “she” was that Sherlock was talking about. The cuff of Sherlock’s sleeve was soft against his cheek, their chests aligned in tantalizing contact that seemed not to impact Sherlock at all, though it threw John’s entire world off its stable rotation. They were pressed together and John was grateful that Sherlock’s intense focus was directed somewhere other than John’s flushed face and panicked behaviour.

Sherlock craned his neck slightly to the right, his eyes tightening as he attempted to focus on some faraway object.

“She’s with a man- she’s giving him something.”

 _Money_? John wanted to ask, though dared not move his lips against the skin of Sherlock.

“An exchange,” Sherlock continued below a whisper. “He’s giving her money, she’s giving him a package. Good God- _drugs_.”

In the dim light of the moon, John could see colour leave Sherlock’s face.

“She’s a dealer. That _is_ a surprise.”

They stood still, silent, for an impossibly long time, John’s heart surely abandoning him with its violent palpitations. When Sherlock finally moved out of the gap, his hand leaving John’s mouth, they clamoured together into the street in silent chaos.

“What the hell just happened?” John asked, his own voice sounding like a shout after his prolonged silence.

“Drug deal,” Sherlock said, standing a bit straighter and running his hands along his jacket to flick off imagined scum. “She must have been just biding time tonight until she was supposed to meet him- that’s why she was out on the town alone with no apparent purpose.”

“I thought this was a _missing persons_ case,” John said, exasperated.

“It was,” said Sherlock with a devilish smile.

“So where did she go?”

“Home, probably,” he said shrugging.

“Wha-” John couldn’t believe how easily Sherlock was letting her go- abandoning the case. “Shouldn’t we follow her?”

“To her home? Don’t be peculiar, John, we can’t just follow a woman around town,” he said with a wink and John had to laugh at the irony. “No, this case is bigger than I suspected. We’ll need to get the police involved now. After tonight, I have enough information to provide them with an easy path of prosecution.”

Face-to-face with the end of their evening, John’s stomach plummeted to his navel. “So… there was no point, yeah? What was accomplished?”

“Absolutely nothing!” Sherlock said too happily, already walking backward down the street and smiling broadly at John. “Except, of course, my own accumulation of evidence. Fancy some food? I owe you from those drinks.”

John returned the smile, a bit uncertain in whether it was genuine. The whole ordeal seemed an awful waste of time in hindsight. Then again, looking at Sherlock’s knowing smile and feeling his own heart flutter with a happiness he’d never felt before, he thought maybe it wasn’t a waste afterall.

He fell instep beside Sherlock and the other man rotated to face the same direction, leading the way to whichever restaurant would possibly serve food at this hour. “You know, you owe me more than money for those drinks.”

“I surely don’t know what you’re referring to,” said Sherlock too innocently.

“I deduce that you’re full of shit,” John said, reveling in the way Sherlock’s lips twitched in response. “I played your game and I took those three shots and you’ve conveniently avoided playing along.”

“Fine,” huffed Sherlock, rolling his eyes. “Three, yes?”

“Yeah.”

He was silent for a moment, his mouth a hard line as he thought. “I’ve never successfully worked a case with another person before tonight.”

This appalled John into silence, his mouth opening to start many sentences that seemed unsatisfactory before finally saying, “But- does this qualify as “working a case”? We didn’t solve it and you’re passing the case to the police.”

“Trust me, John: we successfully worked this case.” He said it with such authority, such sincerity, that John’s protests fell silent before even reaching his throat.

“And- and- you didn’t work with- Victor?” His name was fire in his throat, a painful but necessary question ripping his heart even as he asked.

Sherlock shook his head, eyes far away. “I would consult with Victor but… he didn’t fancy working the cases. He was always much more artistic than he was analytical.”

“Ah.”

“Second: I’ve only ever had two friends in my life.”

 _Victor_.

“Who was the second, then?”

“As per the rules, I don’t believe I need to answer that,” Sherlock said, repeating John’s own words back to him.

“Fine,” he muttered. “One more, then.”

Sherlock thought for a long time and the only sound of the dark city was their feet upon the ground, perfectly in sync with one another. When he spoke, it was soft and melodious on the wind, words that would ingrain themselves into John’s mind for years to come: “I sincerely and genuinely had fun tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, please be aware there is just a bit more info to this case that John doesn't know yet. It will be covered in the next (very short) chapter. This is not a casefic so the explanation is really quite simple but it will be explained. :) Therefore, if something seems off or you have questions, I would love to answer them AFTER the clarification is given.  
> Second, if you're curious about learning more about how women would paint on their hosiery, you can read this article [here.](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/paint-on-hosiery-during-the-war-years-29864389/)  
> Finally, I'm still laughing at the fact that John couldn't "think straight" when Sherlock was pressed against him lol.


	11. Epiphany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does some thinking and reaches an inescapable conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter opens the same evening as Chapter 10 but the scene break is a three-day jump in time.

Angelo didn’t typically open for business at nearly one in the morning, though he’d happily opened up the restaurant beneath his home to prepare a wonderful serving of food for Sherlock and his friend. It was partially due to the fact that Angelo owed Sherlock for assisting in securing his freedom but it was mostly because Angelo simply adored Sherlock.

The pair ate until they were in pain, Sherlock willing the night to stretch to more and more minutes, desperately happy to find that he was enjoying himself. It was a sensation he’d been certain he wouldn’t feel again.

After Victor, he didn't believe joy would ever find him. He had accepted it, welcomed it.

John sat across the table, telling a story of his uni days with Philip between mouthfuls of pasta. Sherlock listened intently, experiencing a unique sort of joy from seeing John’s elation. And truly, he was lighter here, in this exact moment, than Sherlock had seen him before. His loose-fitting clothes spoke volumes of his status since returning home from the war and his eagerness to stuff his face with as much food as he could was promising.

Sherlock wondered distantly if he should inform John that they had, indeed, solved the case. If he should confess that he’d solved it from the very first day he’d met Mary. That he’d known it from the beginning- that their adventure tonight was to find a motive, not to uncover what happened to the husband- which they did.

Drugs. She’d been dealing- Sherlock recognized the insignia on the exchanged product- it was present on some of Sherlock’s own stash. All the evidence clicked into place: Her husband had been murdered in some drug-related affair. She had killed him herself- most likely after he’d threatened to blackmail her. That sort of thing happened all the time in drug circles. So she’d killed him and done a bloody good job hiding the evidence. Then she had reported him missing to mask her own guilt. She’d been considering getting a private detective involved but had chickened out because the risk was too great- Sherlock was, after all, more adept than the police force. The fact that she killed him was confirmed when she’d referred to her husband in the past tense, as he explained to John. The motive was established as she flirted her way across town and then exposed herself as a drug dealer.

Still, details aside, he had it mostly figured out from his five-minute meeting with her weeks ago on that very day John had walked into his life.

It was a distraction. A ruse to help John. And sure enough, John was happy. John was eating, John’s mind was far from the war. And, unless Sherlock was very much mistaken, John would get some much-needed sleep as well tonight.

“And so he asked me to help him study,” he said after swallowing a mouthful of food. “But then we  _ both _ ended up failing.”

Sherlock smiled, his cheeks nearly sore from the frequency of that occurrence this evening. “You brought him down with you,” he prompted.

“Exactly! On accident, of course. So for the next test, I made him take the notes in geometry because apparently, I was rubbish at it.”

No. He wouldn’t tell John. To admit the evening was founded on a lie- albeit a well-intentioned one- would destroy his delight. It was so much better- more important- to allow John this joy.

No. It was much better to let him enjoy. 

There was something about this John Watson.  

* * *

 

_ Because here’s the thing, Sherlock: If I live, I want us to be together forever until we pass in the same breath because I could never live a moment without you. Yet I know that if you were to utter those same words, it would break my heart. _

Victor’s handwriting shook in his trembling hand while his eyes remained- miraculously- dry.

_ Sherlock, I know you. I’ve known you since we were both eight years old and still forming thoughts and opinions about the world and relationships. We formed our views together, our lives entwined from that very first day. _

He’d returned to this last message from his late husband every single day since it had arrived in the calloused hands of a soldier. For 24 days, he’d scanned them on repeat, ensuring that every curve of every letter of the 697 words would tattoo themselves to the inside of his mind.

_ Yet the idea of you spending a life mourning my passing and dwelling on “what-ifs” truly, certainly, undeniably, verily, and fully shatters my heart. _

Victor had known Sherlock well enough to fully predict his behaviour in the event of his death.

_ Sherlock. _

No one else would ever know him the exact way that Victor had.

_ My love. _

Maybe that wasn’t the point.

_ My life. _

Maybe love wasn't supposed to be duplicated.

_ My husband. _

Maybe each love is unique and its originality is what makes it precious and eternal.

_ I love you. _

Maybe the love for Victor would never die. Maybe it isn’t supposed to die or be replaced.

_ Please don’t forget to live. Please don’t forget joy and laughter and music and pleasure and forward progression. Please don’t dwell on our memories until you forget to form new ones. Please don’t recall my ghost until you, too, become one. _

Sherlock read the memorized words, his heart heavy, but the message finally-  _ finally _ \- hitting home.

_ Please. It’s all I ask of you. Please live passionately and boldly and joyfully. _

Victor would be happy to know he wasn’t alone. Happy to see him smiling, laughing, going on new adventures with new friends. All these things possible only if he stopped clinging to what might have been.

Before John walked into his life, his happiness had always clung to Victor.

He folded the note, his breath shallow and terrified as he gingerly placed it back in its beaten envelope. Sherlock only now understood that allowing himself to move forward in life was not a betrayal.

The knowledge didn’t ease the guilt as he lowered the precious note into a small, rectangular box of which the letter was the only occupant. Sherlock closed the box, locking it in the process and carried the thing to his writing desk. He placed it in a drawer, closing it and sitting down with a sigh.

He wouldn’t need to read it every day anymore. His heart had always had room for only one thing: Victor. But now his heart was expanding; there was room for friends and music and adventures. Just like Victor wanted.

The ache in his heart was diminishing every day, though he knew it would never be gone completely.

To move forward in life felt a betrayal to his lost love. But to not move forward- to let life pass him by, to lock himself away, to wallow in grief- was a betrayal to himself and to his love’s last wish.

With steeled resolve, Sherlock gripped his fountain pen, a fresh parchment, and began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... what's Sherlock writing? 🤔😉


	12. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are ten days until the fateful preliminary for the band's contest. John has no song and no plan until Sherlock shows up at John's flat in the dead of the night with a solution.  
> With the contest on the horizon, tensions run high among band members.

If John hadn’t been plagued by insomnia for the entirety of the past two months since he returned to this ruddy flat, he would have either slept through the boisterous pounding his wooden door was receiving or otherwise been royally pissed off that someone had woken him up in the middle of the night with their incessant pounding on his door.

But John had been experiencing insomnia every night so instead, the sudden knocks, like gunshots in the silence, resulted in a startled jump in his armchair. He rose himself up slowly, grunting against the effort of it and crossed hesitantly to the door. Who on Earth would be calling at this late hour? John didn’t even have guests calling during the regular hours of the day, and it, therefore, went without saying that there was never the slightest whisper of guests trying to break down his door so many hours after the sun had spread the last of its rays.

He turned the knob and wrenched the thing open, blinking in surprise. He registered a flushed Sherlock before him, his eyes alive with the flame of excitement, his entire body radiating with the energy of an untold thrill.

“John!” he bellowed, aggressively loud against the ringing silence John’s ears were accustomed to. He walked into the flat past John without waiting for any further exchange of formalities.

“Er- yeah, come on in,” John muttered, closing the door behind him and panicking about the state of the place. Stray books littered every visible seating option, his throw blanket in an array over its chair, the singular light source now seeming small and lacklustre in the presence of such a shining personality. It wasn’t messy- he was an army man, after all- but it was a bit cluttered, a bit demonstrative of his way of life. He found himself embarrassed by it, wishing he could boast a more impressive living arrangement. “What are you doing here-”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, interrupting his question. His eyes were enormous globes as they penetrated him, and appeared to wholly dismiss anything in the world other than John. His mind, racing with questions and filling with an inexplicably rising panic, threatened to crumble into indiscernible pieces at the way those eyes bore into him. Their radiant brilliance cut through the fog of it all and lent the thinnest of corridors to lead John to clarity when he said: “I have it.”

Equal parts bewildered and stunned by the abrupt appearance, John could only manage to stutter out, “You have what, exactly?”

“The _song_ , John,” he urged, waving his hand toward John and alerting him to the existence of several messy papers in their grip.

“Oh! You have a song!”

“Yes,” he said impatiently, practically stomping his feet. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“Well let’s take a look.”

He walked toward the dusty grand piano that took up the better half of his living room. It’d gone unplayed for so long, he felt a pang of guilt when he slid onto the smooth, glossy bench. A warmth filled him, glowing from his fingertips that were ghosting across abandoned keys to his toes as they teased the edges of the metallic petals.

“I was thinking about Victor. I was re-reading the letter he- the one you gave me. I was thinking about how my experience isn’t remotely near a rare one,” Sherlock said in a blur of words, shoving the pages onto the piano and fluttering his hands about. John stared at him, trying to keep up. “But that’s the thing: it doesn’t matter if it’s common. It’s still hard. It’s hard to let go because it feels like a betrayal to him but it’s simply an impossible task to keep holding on. Especially against his explicit request.”

John was barely holding onto any understanding of Sherlock’s stream of consciousness, though he understood that Sherlock was speaking more for himself than for John’s own understanding.

“And then I started writing- a feat I hadn’t imagined I’d manage again after- well, you know. I hadn’t written anything since, but it came pouring out of me like it had been there the whole time.”

John took once glance at the name of the song before him and flushed a deep scarlet, trying desperately to keep it hidden. The title filled him with hope and subsequent shame.

“So…” he prompted, still waiting to hear why Sherlock was in his flat.

“ _So_ ,” he said, clearly frustrated that John wasn’t picking up on what he was saying, “it’s a song about love lost but hope for the future. It’s a song that reflects every single gold star man and woman and family out there!”

“My God,” John breathed, realizing.

“Exactly!” Sherlock positively leapt at John’s understanding. “This is it, John. This will win us the preliminary- the whole damned thing, even. It will connect with audiences but furthermore, it’s authentic. The band fought in the war, the singer lost a loved one in the war- it’s a song to honour the troops that also honours the families back home. I’m telling you, John. This is it.”

John couldn’t rake the music quickly enough, heat rising in him from a cocktail of excitement and precaution. The words sunk in as he scanned them, the ghost of a melody in his head as he read through Sherlock’s scrappy sheet music.

“It’s brilliant.”

“I know.”

“We gotta plunk it out here,” John said when he turned to the third page and saw some technical problems with the bass line. “We gotta fine tune it.”

“Then?” prompted Sherlock.

“Then we take it to the band.”

* * *

“I don’t know,” Tobias said slowly, his eyes glued to the finalized sheet music he held in his hand. “Isn’t it supposed to be a song to honour the troops?”

“It does honour them,” urged Sherlock. “It’s supposed to reflect the wartime experience but it’s still gotta be worthy of the movies.”

“It is rather good,” Philip admitted, albeit hesitantly. Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised to hear the compliment escape and John couldn’t blame him since Philip's snarky comments toward Sherlock had become more and more frequent.

“Look, this is it, gentlemen,” John inserted. “This is all we have. I've written _97_ original songs in the past few years and not one of them is good enough to win shit. _This_ is good enough to win. Not to mention, it’s the only option we have.”

John had arrived to this rehearsal a million miles above the world, filled to the breaking point with exuberant glee. He’d never been more excited to present a piece of music, proud beyond words of Sherlock for having composed such a flawless tune.

He had not expected even the slightest bit of resistance. Though in hindsight, he should have. The lot of them were trained professionals in the arguing department.

“It’ll be Sherlock singing, yeah?” Greg asked, tossing a fresh apple in the air and catching it smoothly. “No offence, mate, but you really don’t have the range for this.”

John laughed, imagining the screeching that would incur if he attempted to sing this particular piece. “Yeah, of course it’ll be Sherlock.”

“Then I’m in,” Greg said easily, looking immediately bored after he said it, his portion of participation done with.

“Me too,” said Sholto, every head turning to him in surprise. Up until then, he’d been utterly silent. “It’s brilliant. It will hit home for our audience. And frankly, it’s our best option.”

Sherlock turned his eyes to Philip, his head held high but his tone soft as he prompted: “And Philip?”

“Well if _he’s_ officially part of the band,” he said, eye flicking to and away from Sherlock, “then we won’t be a band of veterans, will we?”

John suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and instead, closed his eyes and prayed for the patience to make it through this debacle without yelling at anybody. “Fine, Philip. We’ll give him the title of ‘ _featuring_ Sherlock Holmes’ rather than make him an official member.” He looked at Sherlock with an arched eyebrow to ensure this was an acceptable arrangement and saw him nod in agreeance. “How’s that, Philip? Better?”

Philip sighed, his eyes downcast as he conceded and muttered, “Yeah, I’m in.”

“Aye, Aye,” offered Wiggins, his stare directed to an unknown object. “Me too.”

All eyes were on Tobias, face still wearing a mask on uncertainty. He looked at John with a ferocious intensity, eyes not blinking. “You actually believe in the song? This isn’t just about the fact that it was written by your new friend?”

John’s stomach dropped but kept his face neutral. “Yes, Tobias. I know this song is good enough to win.”

Tobias sighed heavily, his eyes rolling as he said “Alright, then. Let’s run it.”

* * *

The fateful day of the competition sat a mere nine days from Sherlock’s introduction of the song. With their standard rehearsal schedule, it would have left a mere four rehearsals at ninety minutes each. It would have been tight, even for this accumulation of music experts. At the behest of John, they managed to work in two additional rehearsal times for the lot of them to cement their perfection. As a result of these six rehearsals, two gigs at The Crescent, and the pressure of the impending competition, tensions were running high among the seven men.

As the contest crept closer and they had only two more sessions to achieve perfection, Sholto was particularly on edge. His personal distemperment tipped Tobias past the edge of his always precautious temper who then took it out on Greg. The result was a nearly unbearable bout of bickering between the two. It was a domino effect across the band and John was certain he would descend into madness if it continued even one minute longer.

“Oi, why don’t you focus a bit more on hitting your mark and less on my technique,” barked Greg an hour into rehearsal, a rare instance of impatience breaking through after Tobias snapped once more at him for being “incompetent.”

“Why don’t _you_ ,” Tobias snarled, “focus less on that damned flask-”

“ _Alright_ ,” bellowed John over their mounting anger. “Everyone just shut up, alright?”

Silence fell, loaded and dangerous and tense. Even Wiggins sat disgruntled, harbouring resentment from a particularly cruel comment from Philip that had been shot at him a few minutes earlier.

“I don’t care,” John said dismissively, his apathy truly reaching a peak. “I really don’t, gentlemen. I don’t care what your big problems are. I don’t care if you don’t like each other or if you think you have it the hardest or if you think someone isn’t doing things the way you would. When we get together, we fall into line, alright?”

“But-”

“No!” John shouted, wishing quite desperately he could pull his hair out. “No, okay?” He felt every pair of eyes on him, their stares burning holes into him, holding him to this spot with a cumulative fury. “We joined this band to win this competition, yes? Well, I got news for the lot of you: we’re playing like shit because we’re at each other’s necks constantly. How do you propose we play as one unit if we are too busy treating each other like the enemy?”

Tobias, Greg, and Philip all diverted their eyes in displeased submission, their wrath simmering beneath the recognition that John was correct. Sherlock, Wiggins, and Sholto, meanwhile, continued their interested stares, the support of those three pairs of eyes providing him with the will to continue.

“What happened before- the war, the fighting, the starvation, the loss? Getting through it required brotherhood. At the end of the day, we didn’t fight to win the war, we fought to protect each other. Well, we’re in a different sort of fight now. We’re in it together. This band is founded on devoted brotherhood. Frankly, if you are willing to win this contest at the price of crawling over your fellow brothers, then you’re here for no reason at all and you can leave right now.”

“That’s bullshit, Watson,” said Tobias. “None of us would be here without the promise of the reward.”

“Come on, Tobias-”

“No, he’s right,” said Sholto, surprising everyone with his uncharacteristic insertion. “No, not you, Gregson. Watson’s right. The war brought us together just like the contest did. But we didn’t only fight for the war and we don’t play only for the grand prize. I, for one, have placed immense value on the non-musical benefits that this band offers in light of disappointments in other areas of my life.”

Silence followed, the dust swirling in the dingy rehearsal space as Sholto’s words settled into each person’s mind with varying intensity. There was a blanket of discomfort over them, the pressure weighing them down.

“He’s correct,” whispered Sherlock, his eyes remaining on John, though he addressed everyone. “Winning is why we’re here. It’s not why we stayed. There is not one person here whose life has not improved because of this band.”

Gratitude bloomed inside John’s chest, Sherlock’s words reassuring an ancient part of his tired soul.

Only after an eternity of loaded silence did John quietly suggest: “From the top, then?”

“Aye, aye, Cap,” Wiggins saluted somberly.

Bickering, tempers, and resentments aside, their music swelled in generous waves of melodious perfection around them. Sherlock’s voice filled the room with a rich tapestry of words that he wrote and brought to life. John was not alone in his awe at the incredible voice filling the room. He watched mouths gape, eyebrows raise, and eyes flitting upward every time they reached the conclusion of the song and Sherlock’s voice reached incredible heights.

Two days.

In two days, they would be called to a stage to perform the fruits of their hard work in front of a live audience. Their performance would additionally be broadcast throughout the greater Cardiff region via radio airwaves. With every practice run, their performance improved in quality and John was filled with irrefutable certainty that on the 16th of December, they would give the greatest performance of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT DID SHERLOCK WRITE?!? ;)  
> I shan't spoil it. Tune in next chapter to find out when our boys perform the regional round of the contest.  
> PSA: If you're worried about anybody's character development, I simply ask that you have faith in all the planning I did for this fic. :)


	13. Right This Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of the preliminary competition and it's time for The John Watson Band to prove that they deserve a chance to be in the movies. Even though they're armed with Sherlock's song and their collective music expertise, they can't help but feel nervous.  
> It will be a day they'll all remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready to see what the band will perform?! For your convenience, I embedded a SoundCloud widget of the song before the lyrics begin so you can hear what the band is performing. However, bear in mind that Sherlock is a baritone so the song would not be nearly so high as the woman who sings it in the musical. I encourage you to listen along to the song as you read through the lyrics. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Sherlock?”

The detective was motionless on a stool, his mind evidently far away from the rest of them. There was a chorus of nervous shuffling amongst the bandmates as they waited in the green room for their slot. Sherlock, meanwhile, sat completely still. He could have been a statue of angelic stature were it not for the slight motion of his stomach that signalled breath.

He didn’t respond to his name, remaining glued in place.

“Sherlock?” he tried again, placing a tentative hand on the curved shoulder.

The touch sparked a movement in him, his head turning quickly from John’s face to his hesitant fingers and back again. “John,” he said, surprised to find himself in his presence despite arriving at the venue together.

“You alright?”

“Perfectly.”

The falsehood of it was raucous in the uncomfortably still room.

A leap of courage supplied him with the strength to commit his hand to a grip on Sherlock’s shoulder, his fingers applying pressure and sensing warmth beneath the cotton shirt. “Hey,” he whispered, resisting his desire to lean in further but willing the sincerity of the words to ring true. “You’re going to be great. You’re going to blow them all away.”

Sherlock’s eyes searched John's, and his tongue seemed to fail him as he opened his mouth to respond but closed it silently, nodding his head curtly. They remained like that for a long minute and John would have happily remained drowning in those eyes for eternity.

Sherlock appeared so extraordinarily handsome, John could have written a sonnet based on his beauty. Although, in truth, the lot of the men were looking dapper. Each appeared that morning in the best clothing their closets had to offer. John, even, had sprung for a modest suit using a bit of the money they’d acquired from their continued gigs at various clubs throughout town. They had discussed the potential of performing in their respective military blues but ultimately decided against it. After all, this was a radio broadcast; they only needed to impress the live judges and a modestly sized crowd.

The preliminary contest was held across town from John’s flat in a regal building meant for people of moderate to extreme stardom to perform in. Surely none of them ever believed they would be performing on this stage in Cardiff.

They’d arrived at ten in the morning, an ample two hours earlier than they’d been instructed to arrive for preparations. Still, John had been disheartened to learn that their band was slotted dead-last to perform. It was a terrible fear come to fruition. He’d fought for a time with the assistant responsible for telling him of their late slot, but there was no luck to be had in arguing the placement. After all, you can't shoot the messenger.

The truth was that they’d only arrived so early to prevent this exact happenstance. By appearing onstage last, it was guaranteed that they would be performing for judges who would be tired of the whole ordeal by the time any of them set a single foot on that stage. As the last band, they would have to be ten times more enthralling than the first or second band would need to be.

More than that, however, was the horror of being the band to cope with nerves for the longest period of time. John was desperate to relieve the nerves wracking his bandmates, trying desperately to distract then with various tactics such as small talk and prattling on about music theory. The effort was futile, though, and they settled into silence in their small dressing room as they waited hours for their turn.

Every time a new band was introduced, one of them would travel toward the stage to scope out the competition for just a minute or two before returning with their opinion.

So far, eight bands had performed and, according to Philip and Greg, only two were decent.

“We’ve got them beat, though,” said Greg easily, though his shaking hands that itched toward where a flask usually hid betrayed him.

So they waited. And waited. As the list of bands still left to perform shrunk and the list of bands who already had their shot grew, the nerves collectively rose.

It felt like an eternity until, finally, a stranger poked their head through the doorway and into the silent room.

“John Watson Band?” the young, wiry man inquired.

“Yes?” John answered on behalf of them all.

“You’re up after this next band. Care to follow me to the green room?”

John drummed his fingers against his palm as he made to follow the man in a last-minute attempt to keep his fingers limber. Sholto picked up his case containing his trombone while Greg, Philip, and Tobias carried their instruments loose as though they were extensions of their own hands.

Sherlock rose soundlessly and fell into step behind the last of the men until they were once again soldiers marching into battle.

The green room was vibrating with the band before them while the young man gave them their instructions for how and when to walk on stage. When they were left alone at last, Sholto removed his trombone with care.

“Er- alright,” John started uncomfortably. “Remember: this is just the preliminary round. The bar is fairly low. So we know we can win. We can win on our bad days and we can demolish the rest of them on our best days.”

They nodded solemnly, every intention, hope, and purpose aligning at once.

“Wiggins, make sure you don’t miss the entrance on ‘once I learned.’ And Philip, make sure-”

“We know,” interrupted Greg, smiling. “We know, mate. It’s not going to get any better than it is right now. Don’t worry.”

John fell reluctantly silent, knowing he was right but his body refusing to release its tension.

It was possibly the longest John could ever hope for this group to remain quiet. The thought would have put a smile on his face under any other circumstances.

The sensation of hearing the band end, lining up for their entrance, and beginning their walk onto the stage was surreal. John had performed many, many times before this. But never had there been so much riding on his performance.

They crossed the stage, ingrained instincts causing them to, once again, fall into a march to their positions on stage as the previous band shuffled off and the woman announcer of the radio program could be heard as the backing track for their journey.

On the stage was a grand piano as nice as John had ever seen, a beautiful, shining microphone, a shining drum set for Wiggins, and clear places for the rest to settle into.

“That was The Dwight Anson Band, ladies and gentleman,” came an Irish accent with a lilting tone to John’s half-deaf ears. “What a sizzling tune that was, if I may say so myself. I can’t say for sure, but this contest may have just been sewn up, what do you think, Archie?”

“I’d have to agree, Janine, their jazz was as hot as a summer’s day. But I’m certain I’m still leaning toward the Supernova Band from earlier.”

John shot a purposeful look toward Greg. The Supernova Band was the ensemble Greg had enjoyed as well.

“Well, there is only one more band left to change your mind. Once again, this is Janine and Archie, your hosts for tonight's broadcast, brought to you by Bayer Aspirin, just in time for the holidays. Our last contestants are six of our boys just home from the war and a young man who lost his wife and best friend in the war efforts with a song called _Love Will Come and Find Me Again_ for all the gold star family members out there. We are happy to introduce: The John Watson Band featuring Sherlock Holmes.”

And in the thick silence that followed their introduction, there was nothing left to do but play. His fingers hovered above the keys only for the slightest of seconds, connecting his eyes with Sherlock’s, exchanging a nod before playing a simple, rapid scale to lead him in. His voice followed the scale, rich baritone of perfect pitch filling the room until nothing else- the contest, the war, the trauma- mattered. There was only the music beneath his fingers and Sherlock beginning to sing:

_Once upon a time, I would wake beside my love,_  
_Who would make me feel like nothing could take them from me_  
_Once I thought forever was real,_  
_I thought my life was ideal,_  
_I thought that nothing could steal it, you see_  
_Once I learned how wrong I had been,_  
_That sometimes dreams can cave in and what then?_  
_Once I learned the hard way,_  
_Faith in ever after was done,_  
_And I gave up ever wondering when,_  
_Love will come and find me again_  
_And it's almost like time has stood still,_  
_Like a lifetime iced under a frost,_  
_And I don't try to warm from the chill,_  
_Although I know how much I've lost,_  
_Trouble is, the more you deny,_  
_The more you don't even try,_  
_The more the world passes by in a haze,_  
_Soon you find you don't even know how many years you let go,_  
_The chances wasted in so many ways,_  
_Lately I've been thinking it's time_  
_To take a look at what I'm doing then, clinging to if only,_  
_Heaven knows there's more than one love_  
_And maybe I should be planning for when,_  
_Love will come and find me again,_  
_Letting go of what might have been,_  
_And letting something else in only then,_  
_Love will come and find me again._

The music came to a stop all at once, a moment of complete silence following their sound as each of them released tension they hadn’t realized they’d been holding the entire time. The final note hung in the air around them, the accumulation of their hard work ringing in their ears long after the song reached its conclusion. John had time for exactly one thought before the crazed cheer from the audience found his ears: _We did it._

Reality seeped in slowly, crawling water drops along a glass pane until John turned to register a wildly cheering crowd. The gathering of people in front of him were on their feet, wildly whooping and hollering in response to the music they’d produced. Nothing felt real as they stood up and walked off stage. Only distantly did he register the announcer’s words, fading as he walked away.

“Well that sure was something, wasn’t it?” Janine laughed. “What a beautiful display of music from the John Watson Band and Sherlock Holmes!”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, I’d say that was the most captivating performance of the day. How about the voice on that Sherlock Holmes? Perhaps we should-”

But the words faded and reality hit the lot of them as the stage door closed and they shuffled toward their dressing room until they were all alive with the energy that just now caught up to them.

It was mounting in John, his walk turning into a skip, his glee keeping him buoyant, unable to prevent a true giggle when he caught Greg’s eyes and saw a blissful disbelief that matched his own.

“We fucking did it,” said Greg, jumping a bit and surprising the lot of them when he ran to grip Sherlock impossibly close in a tight hug. “You were fucking brilliant, Sherlock. You were fucking amazing.”

“I- Thank- Thank you,” stammered Sherlock between smiling teeth and suddenly, Greg wasn’t the only one embracing. Philip’s bubbling laughter came out purely happy, his arm extending around Sherlock’s shoulders for but a moment.

“That really was something,” he said shaking his head.

And their energy fed off of one another, Greg nearly tackling Tobias after releasing Sherlock. Even Sholto was smiling wider than he’d ever seen, shaking John’s hand fervently before John caved and simply pulled the man into a trembling bear hug.

They were a mess of limbs muttering complete nonsense, all eagerly proclaiming that they couldn’t believe they’d done so well.

“It’s in the bag,” laughed Greg. “It has to be. We were fucking amazing out there.”

They were a mass of nonsensical proclamations until, an incredibly short time later, they were called to the stage for the announcement of the winner.

It happened in flashes: walking down the hallway, falling into place on stage, the announcers opening up the final scores from the judges, The Horns winning third place, the Supernova band winning second place, and, finally-

“And our local band that will be heading to London to perform their tunes for the chance to appear in movies and so much more is… _The John Watson Band!_ ”

John crossed to shake hands with the announcers and, simply put, it was the greatest moment of his life.

* * *

They’d been instructed to wait for further instruction in their dressing room. There was not a care to be had in the room or the world. It could have been three minutes or five hours and they wouldn’t have known the difference.

Not a single one of them was silent, their voices rising over one another and John didn’t know who was talking to who, but John was talking to Sherlock, looking at him as though he were the sun that provided life to the entirety of his existence.

“And your tonal shift when you hit ‘once I knew how wrong I had been’? God, Sherlock, that was _amazing_!”

“I… don’t remember it,” laughed Sherlock, shaking his head and his eyes more alive than he’d ever seen them. “It was as though I fell asleep and sang the whole thing without consciousness.”

“Well, it was fucking brill-”

“John Watson Band?” came an unfamiliar voice, a pair of men standing in the doorway.

“That’s bloody us!” shouted Greg.

“Congratulations again,” offered the kinder looking of the two men. His hair was as black as night with a single streak of grey that exposed either his age or else a genetic ordeal if some sort. His dark eyes sparkled with sincerity as he continued, “I’m Alex Peters and this,” he said, gesturing to his companion, “is Nicholas Maher.”

“We’re here to tell you about your next steps,” said Nicholas, clearly bored. His hair was wispy, his skin nearly translucent in the horrible lighting offered by the room. “This is a paper that outlines the date and time of your expected arrival.” Philip, who was both nearest to them and passionate about reading fine print, grabbed the paper and began to immediately ignore the men before them.

“When you perform in London, you will be competing again the winners from the fifty other countries in the UK,” continued Alex. “We can’t tell you much about your competition, though. Many of them haven’t competed, though a great number are holding their preliminary round today.”

“And what day does the train leave for London?” John asked, his smile surely permanent upon his face now.

“Well it’s up to you, innit?” Alex said with a laugh. “You have to be there no later than 8 in the morning on March 22nd but most bands are planning on arriving a couple of days earlier. You know- to see the city.”

A flash of confusion blinded John, his smile faltering in response. “Sure,” he said lightly, “but is the date of departure on the paper you’ve given us?”

“Mr. Watson, surely-” began Nicholas.

“They’re not paying for it.”

It was Philip. His nose was nearly pressed against the paper, his eyes narrowed as they flew across the words on the page. His words brought an eerie stillness upon them, the words processing repeatedly through every mind as they refused to sink in.

“What?” said John, whose smile was stupidly remaining in place. “What do you mean?”

“They’re not paying for it,” Philip repeated, his eyes continuing their rapid scan of the same two or three lines that he was attached to. “That’s what this says: ‘Each member of the group/band/orchestra is to find the means to make the trip on their own account. MGM is not responsible for any portion of any travel expenses, up to and including reimbursement in the event that the group/band/orchestra wins it all.’”

“Smart man!” said Alex, infuriatingly maintaining his jovial mood as an unparalleled mix of denial and gloom settled upon the seven men who’d been miles above the world mere seconds ago. “As I’m sure your trumpet player will see, every question you could have will be answered on that page there. Feel welcome to drop a letter to the address at the bottom there if there’s anything else we can do for you lads.”

And with a blind joy that could not have been more out of place in the desolation surrounding them, the two men exited the room. There was only the seven of them, frozen in disbelief, their minds rebelling to ferociously against the information thrust upon them.

John’s eyes fell closed, his breathing reduced to the shallowest of motions.

It couldn’t be.

They’d come so far.

“So that’s it? We just- can’t accept?" Tobias’ voice came entirely too soon after the door closed, though an eternity had elapsed.

No one answered. No one could.

There was a fire burning within him that, initially the smallest of flames, expanded exponentially to a raging force of nature. There was no sight, no reasoning, only the burning pain of lost dreams.

John’s trembling fist collided against the rustic wallpaper, the resulting crack a lament for everything they’d worked toward. The pain of impact didn’t register, the faint calls behind him from his bandmates landing mute upon his ringing ears.

The end of the road.

They couldn’t afford a trip to London. A hotel. A train. All the other tiny expenses that would prevent them from going.

They’d won and yet the opportunity would go to someone else. He’d prepared to lose. Prepared to win. He hadn’t prepared to get shot after crossing the finish line in first place.

The edges of the world were blurred, panic mixing with anger inside him to cause an eruption of the worst of him. It was the fog of war all over again and, like clockwork, he heard _him_.

_There is a train._

Victor _._

John closed his eyes, his forehead falling to rest upon the cold wall. He took in a shaking breath from his tight throat, his eyes burning.

_Remember, Johnny boy: No matter how bad things get, there’s always a train coming._

Where there had only been ringing silence, there was crisp clarity. Victor always gave that to him: clarity. The incoherent muttering was the background to one soft, trepidacious: “John?”

He pushed himself off the wall, turning to face the lot of them. A fire burning inside him, this cruel, unstoppable desire for even one Goddamned thing to go right. In his face and stature, the band must have seen his determination, his desperation for life. They fell silent, every eye upon him. Some held anger, some confusion, and some dismay- yet in every pair of eyes, he saw the desperation to maintain a grip on this dream that matched his own.

“I want you all to imagine… that there is a train.” John spoke with wavering words. He made no attempt to fix them but allowed the weakness of it. “There is a train that leaves from Cardiff General at quarter after five. Do you know where this train goes?”

The sombre men silently shook their heads minutely. They’d never been so quiet, never been so willing to listen.

“It’s direct to Kings Cross, gentlemen. And the train has first-class cars reserved for movie stars. And you know what? We’re going to be on one of them.”

“I can see it all: the swanky leather seats, the fine cuisine, an attendant offering every accommodation that could be expected by someone like us- someone in the movies. The conductor will call us aboard and take our bags. He’ll say: ‘Right this way, gentlemen. Let me take those bags, you’ve been carrying them far too long. We can’t wait to hear your song.”

“And in London? Our hotel will be five-star and stand eleven stories high. The lobby will be so beautiful, it was in a movie that was released less than a month prior. They’ll show us to our sparkling rooms, the beds soft as can be imagined and a view of Big Ben himself. Guest services will welcome us and say: ‘You’ve arrived at last. You’ve been fighting for far too long.’”

He could see it all. He could taste it. At the same time, it was slipping from view. He hung his head, the familiar burn behind his eyes threatening to overwhelm him.

“That’s what we deserve, isn’t it?” John choked out, looking up for only a second to see Tobias’ lip harden and Greg’s eyes heartbreakingly crestfallen. “I don’t know about you, but I have seen too much of hell. After bunks on cargo ships? After trenches in the rain? After personal injuries? After watching my brother die? After running for cover and dodging death? After fighting for four goddamn years and losing my faith in any God?”

John gasped, his voice having reached a pained shout that ripping him directly down the middle. He felt that one whistle of wind would disintegrate him altogether and he only just managed to ask, eyes lifted to the other men at last: “I think we’re entitled to travel first class.” Silence. “Don’t you?”

The yellow light of the ancient bulbs cast harsh shadows across faces hard with a sentiment John couldn’t place. He saw in Wiggins a clarity that rarely shone through. Tobias was swallowing hard, though remaining silent. John’s words circled around all of them, the appearance of an echoing “Don’t you?” hanging over them all.

“How?”

John’s head snapped to Sholto, stoic as always yet with far more passion burning within than he’d ever seen. His jaw was squared, poised to remain loyal and refusing to go down without a fight.

“It’ll require personal sacrifice,” John said, matching Sholto’s stature in solidarity.

“Yeah, well we’re used to that, aren’t we?” asked Tobias dryly. “Whatever it is, I’m in.”

John’s eyes flinted to Philip, their number one flight risk. “Whatever gigs we can get, we’ll take. If there’s a place in town where we can play a set, we’re going to do it. No exceptions. We book every opportunity starting now. We have 97 days until the final round. We take them all, place all the funds in a savings and earn our way to London. We book a train, we book a hotel, and we perform. All with the savings we’ll get from 97 days of hard work.”

“Done,” Tobias said flippantly.

“W-wait,” said Philip, torn between indignation and fright at speaking up. “I can’t- John, you know- law school-”

“Oh, come _on_ , Anderson!” shouted Tobias, rolling his eyes.

“It’s just a competition!”

“Maybe to you-”

“Phil, I gotta tell you,” Greg said, boldly interrupting Tobias. His eyes were hooded as he looked at Philip. Pure sorrow was shining through those enormous eyes, a foreign look on the man who never stopped laughing. The look of him caused the other two men to fall silent instantly and turn bewildered eyes toward him. “If you seriously still think this is just about the contest, you’ve missed the whole point.”

Philip looked between John and Greg, silently seeking answers to a question he didn’t want to ask. “What do you-”

“Oi, mate, come on.” Greg’s tone was uncharacteristically vicious, pain causing a hoarse quality like sandpaper to his voice. “Of course we want to be in the movies and win this contest. But it sure as fuck is not worth what Johnny here is asking.”

“Of course it-”

“ _No_ ,” he nearly shouted. “It isn’t! This is about how we went through hell only to come home and be treated like second-class citizens. This is about how every problem we’re enduring is swept under the rug. How we’re told everything is supposed to be ‘just like it was before.’ But now you have two choices: you can roll over and give up or you can fight for this- what we deserve. And you’re still standing here after the war so we _know_ you’re a fighter. We deserve to have this shot. We deserve the brotherhood and joy this band brings us. We deserve to continue this band, even though the rich fucking company won’t help us continue it. We deserve a shot to win this all. We deserve to play on the stage and prove that everything we are- veterans, musicians, and friends- is worth living and fighting for.”

Philip looked at Greg with a hardened stare, chewing his tongue as he visibly fought off whatever resistance he could have conjured. John counted six impossible seconds before Philip nodded agreeance so minutely, it was a miracle that it was perceptible.

“So are we doing this?” asked Wiggins.

John felt the beginnings of a rebelious smile tugging at the corners of his hardened lips. “I daresay we are.”

“Any other surprises we should know about?” asked Tobias to nobody in particular.

“My God, I hope not,” said Sherlock.

And between those seven wildly different men, after a day where they’d experienced the full range of human emotion, they felt not the anxiety of waiting, not the high of performing, not the joy of winning, and not the sorrow of dreams crushed, but something more powerful than anything: they felt hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gold Star families are immediate relatives of members of the Armed Forces who have been killed in combat or in support of certain military activities." ([x](https://www.voanews.com/a/what-is-a-gold-star-american-family/3444224.html))
> 
> Surprise! This chapter is based on two songs from Bandstand. The first being, obviously, Love Will Come And Find Me Again, which you can find on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/00eGvZPPzFmLWw94V1Ys6w?si=0eiUFmOCQyyGgaa7ayxd4A). The other song is called "Right This Way" and I could never, _ever_ do that song justice. It is emotional and flawless. Please go listen to it on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/0GylXExPMpCEzTuq4ZDYpI?si=82G0ENexTweywRKI-TkHCQ).  
>  **Once again, I URGE you to avoid listening ahead because you will absolutely have several huge plot points spoiled for you.** There are also some spoilers in the songs before these so you aren't safe anywhere unless I tell you to listen to the songs haha.


	14. Likeable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The town is overflowing with bands seeking a performance opportunity and the options for clubs to perform in are limited. Al is just one owner of one club, but he won't let that stop him from helping The John Watson Band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited to announce that we're doing things a bit differently this week. More information in the end notes. For now, please reference [this list of characters](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com/post/182407479030/master-list-of-welcome-home-characters) if you don't remember who Al Hodges is.

“No, I know that won’t work. We’ve got The John Watson Band booked for that night,” Al Rogers said, pulling his nails into the palm of his hand to refrain from strangling the phone line he was connected to.

“Oi, what about the next night? The 27th?” pleaded the agent, positively desperate to book their band a gig in this overbooked town. There was certainly no shortage of local bands in search of a gig after the war.

“That’ll work,” Al resigned, writing down the booking on the calendar before him.

When the conversation ended with the desperate agent, Al resigned himself to a sigh and a frustrated growl. There were so many bands wanting to perform and so few patrons willing to come out to his club to see those bands. He was running dry.

A knock sounded from his office door mere moments after he hung his phone upon the hook. His head shot to look at the clock and was unsurprised to see that the hands were precisely on the hour; his wife was criminally punctual, after all.

“Come in, dear,” he called, casting the book one last look, cataloguing every loss the club was suffering.

Molly walked in with a timid sort of smile and Al reciprocated slowly, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the terrifying numbers and taking in the sight of his wife, lovely as could be in her brilliant blue dress that made the colour of her hair as rich and exquisite as chocolate.

He couldn’t have fought off the admiration in his eyes if he’d tried.

“Are you ready for dinner?” she asked softly, as though still trying to prevent interrupting him.

“For you, dear,” he said, rising from his seat, “I will always be ready.”

As far as he was concerned, he was the luckiest man on the whole damned planet to have the privilege of calling Molly his wife. Fiercely loyal and smart as a whip, she was more than a spouse to him: she was his partner.

He put away the books from his desk and his mind, rising to grab his jacket when Molly said, “Did you find a night for that other band who was seeking a spot?”

“Sure did. They’ll be on the 27th.”

“What about the 26th?” she asked, perplexed.

Al shook his head. “Can’t do it. We got John that night, remember?”

“Oh!” she said, smacking her forehead in a dramatic show of realization. “Of course, how could I forget.”

“It’s not an all too-”

“I do like the lot of them, though,” she said distantly, her eyes focused on something as her brain processed thoughts that Al couldn’t read. “It is a shame what happened to them, though.”

“I- What?” asked Al, baffled. “What are you on about?”

“That grand contest they entered,” she said, turning to look at him in complete surprise.

Al looked at her with still greater confusion. “My dear, they won that contest. They’re off to London in about three months.”

“John hasn’t told you?”

Al wracked his brain for a hint of what John was supposed to have told him and came up completely empty-handed. “What is it that he was supposed to have told me?”

“Oh, Al, it’s horrible,” she said, sighing. “They won but in order to compete in London, they’re going to have to pay their own way. They’re trying for every gig they can possibly get to save up for the tickets and hotel and all of it, but the town is just too booked. We’re the only club willing to pay them for anything. As it goes, they’re not going to be able to attend the final round.”

“Dear God,” Al mumbled. His gaze fell to the floor, mind rapidly falling away from his present environment and into a deeper train of thought far away from the room he stood in.

“Darling?”

Molly’s voice was far away, fainter than the gears turning in his head.

“Molly, dear, just how much do you like the John Watson Band?”

She was taken aback by the question, though answered with an upturned mouth: “A whole lot. Why?”

“Do you like them more than you like our dinner dates?”

Molly tilted her head, a mischievous smiling matching his own. “What do you have in mind?”

* * *

“No, you’re going to listen to me,” said Al forcefully, revelling in the way Mel actually retreated further into his seat. “You’re going to book them and you’re going to pay them top dollar, you hear?”

Mel Jackson owned The Wallace, his biggest competition. Still, Al wasn’t going to be able to help John without the help of this scumbag.

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you, Albert,” snarled Mel. “They’re a bunch of cranky veterans and, to be frank, they’re not likeable enough to draw a crowd.”

“Oh fuc-” started Al.

“We think they’re plenty likeable,” interjected Molly with a calm confidence and composure that resulted in a rush of affection for his wife. She was so level-headed in the face of others’ stupidity. He could never maintain such emotional stability.

“What would you know about it?” dismissed Mel.

Molly’s demeanour became instantly cool, her eyes falling from polite to critical. “Regardless of what you think, we know a bit more about likability than you think.”

“What makes you think-”

“Although, to be fair,” Molly continued loudly, talking over him, “we do sometimes need help figuring out if something is likeable. For example: what you’re doing with your secretary- would your wife find those actions likeable or unlikable?”

Al choked down a bark of laughter until he was in pain from it and Mel flushed a colour that he wouldn’t have believed a man could possibly achieve. Mel’s mouth worked in several directions, seeming to simultaneously chew back words and work to form new ones.

“What do you want?” he finally asked in a cool, deadly tone. He didn’t blink as he stared down Molly who maintained a serene dignity.

“You’re going to book the John Watson Band,” she said. “You’re going to pay them one hundred pounds per night-”

“ _ One hundred _ -” started Mel, positively suffocating on the demand.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Molly asserted. “And you will book them at least once a week, every week until they leave for London.”

“And what if my wife wouldn't believe you?” he challenged.

Al shrugged, scanning his nails as he suggested, “You could take that chance. It's up to you.”

After a long, stubborn, reluctant deliberation, Mel finally conceded, “Fine. Get out.”

With a casual toss of the band’s contact information onto his cluttered desk, they walked out victorious, their hands entwined.

* * *

In the dim light of backstage, the band was messing around with such childish abandon that it warmed the corners of his heart to observe. Oh, what different men stood before him now than had stood before him that first night they had played together.

“Oi, John,” he called. “Ready to play their socks off?”

“You know it,” John answered, confident as could be.

“And how about that upcoming trip? You fellows ready for it?”

John shrugged, his head falling instantly to his hands. Although he maintained his confident and calm manner, Al recognized the loss of eye contact as evidence that a lie was coming. “Yeah- I mean, it’s still three months away now, but we couldn’t be more ready for it.”

“You don’t say?” said Al, trying to hide a smile. “And they’re taking care of you?”

“Oh yeah,” John said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sending us on the London Express- Pullman cars and everything.”

“Wow,” he said, drawing out the word. Behind John, Al saw their singer side-eyeing him and wondered if he overheard John’s lies. “That’s a mighty nice set-up they’re giving you.”

“Yeah, well,” John replied, his words trailing off. “I reckon it’s the least they can do.”

“That is good to hear, mate. Good to hear.”

The pair stood in silence for a long moment, Al watching John’s feet shuffle uncomfortably, his hands forming fists. He was not a good liar. Al made a mental note to play poker with John once this competition became a thing of the past. 

“Say, I had a band cancel on me for the 27th- tomorrow, that is. Can I book you guys again?”

John looked genuinely surprised, though pleasantly so as he began, “I’ll need to ask the guys but-”

“I know it's last minute. You'd be saving my ass, though. So how about I toss in an extra 50?”

“I- my God- Al, that’s-”

“ _ Fine _ ,” bellowed Al dramatically. “Fine, how about a hundred extra? That’s the best I can do.”

“Whatever he's asking us to do,” called the bass player- Graham, was it?- from across the room, “if you say no to a hundred extra, Johnny, I’ll kill you.”

“And I would help,” offered Philip, whose eyes were wide with excitement at the overheard monetary offer. “Whatever it is, we’ll do it!”

John laughed, turning back to Al and saying, “Of course, Al. We’ll do it.”

“Swell!” Al laughed with a clap of his hands. “Break a leg tonight, guys. And we’ll see you at 7 o'clock tomorrow.”

He walked away with a strange, unique sort of pride in his chest. He’d had to blackmail half of the clubs in the city and disappoint many other bands who would have their slots cancelled in favour of scheduling these boys. Yet it was true that if there was one group of men worth protecting- one band worthy of all the work- it was them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the drill: one short chapter every day this week. Each will be from a perspective besides John or Sherlock. Day one was, of course, Al Hodges, owner of The Cresent. This is the only chapter with the POV of an OC.  
> That said, are there any guesses who will the star of tomorrow's POV? :)  
> This chapter was inspired by "I Got A Theory," which is _mostly_ unrelated to this chapter, but there is a bit starting at 1:38 and ending at 2:18 that is related. I'm not going to link it yet because there are portions of the song that will be referenced in upcoming chapters and we don't want spoilers. ;)
> 
> Please let me know if there is an element of this chapter that is confusing. I believe it makes sense, but I know everything about this universe so... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	15. Whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous lush who plays bass is trying to keep the memories of Dachau at bay. Before being recruited to the band, his nightmares wouldn't permit him to sleep through the night. Seven months later, the drink is still an extension of his hand and memories still haunt him, but all is not hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: alcohol/alcoholism  
> Gas: 40s slang for a good time (or something quite funny).

**30 May 1945**

On Winder Avenue, everything was soft in the spring’s night. A gentle wind blew delicately along the bushes, the blooming flowers moving minutely as the soft air shifted around it. It was a street silent with every occupant along its expanse resting in a deep slumber.

The peace of the neighbourhood was about to be disrupted inside the one-room flat of Gregory Lestrade, whose fitful dreams were wrought with despair. At exactly 2:34 in the morning, Greg bolted up in his bed, chest heaving in furious pants. The cotton of his blanket was sticking to every portion of his body, a layer of sweat covering him from the brow of his forehead to the tips of his toes. Short gasps of momentary horror escaped him as he frantically scanned the room and realized with slow, dawning relief that he was, in fact, alone in his flat.

The relief was dominant for just one fleeting moment before relief was crushed beneath the weight of an immense wave of anger.

“ _Damn it!_ ” he shouted, voice cracking with emotion. He swung his closed fist furiously against the wood of his headboard. He cradled his hand against his chest and leaned his forehead against that cold, hard wood. It spread a grateful shiver along his spine and he closed his eyes, fight back a wave of an emotion worse than anger.

“Damn it,” he repeated in a whisper this time. One long breath of air sustained him before he rose from his bed and travelled into his kitchen, dragging his feet all the while.

He plopped onto a kitchen bar stool that teetered left and right due to a manufacturing defect. Desperate, hungry fingers wrapped gratefully around a bottle of cheap whiskey and he twisted the top off expertly, flawlessly.

He’d been asleep long enough for the effect of his nightcap to wear off. Now, horrifically sober, his insides were pleading for the satisfaction of his craving. The desire for it was a flame that put every nerve of his on edge. Everything was too sharp around him, reality pulverising him with its intensity. The drink relieved every pain inside him as it rushed down his throat.

He drank until the nearly-new bottle was empty. As the hours slipped away from him, so did the terrible recollection of his past.

* * *

**Present Day**

“Don’t forget, we have-”

“We know,” Greg groaned, unable to hear John’s reminders even one more time before he lost all patience with the man. “The Wallace. Tomorrow. We know, Johnny boy.”

John flinched away from the name, though Greg couldn't begin got imagine why. Yet with the rest of the band agreeing that they all knew and John letting the piano cover drop over its keys, they all began packing away and small talk erupted that arose as the very specific, distinct sound of the end of rehearsal.

A hard lump found its way up his throat, lodging itself stubbornly in its familiar spot as he put his enormous instrument into its lined casing. It truly was ludicrous how unnecessarily huge the instrument was. Though as much as he complained about its size, he would never admit aloud that there was no better sensation than that of feeling the vibration of the plucked strings through the whole of his body. It was an unparalleled comfort to his frantic mind.

The clasps of his case snapped shut and he heard a low, reverberating voice behind him:

“You’re sleeping well.”

It wasn’t a question, but he answered nevertheless as he rose to face Sherlock, “Yeah, I reckon I am.”

“The band?”

It was miraculous and wonderful how Sherlock was capable of saying so much with so few words.

“Yeah, I reckon so.”

Sherlock smiled, his mouth curled into a subtle curve. “I’m glad to hear it. And you’ve got a date?”

He should have learned long ago not to ask how Sherlock knew things like this, but he asked nevertheless: “Blimey, how’d you know?”

“Cufflinks,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “And you’ve applied cologne. Not a far jump.”

“You have to show me how you do that.”

“Tell you what,” Sherlock said softly, speculatively. “Why don’t we practice tomorrow after our performance?”

Greg started, uncertain whether or not Sherlock was being serious.

“Yes, I’m serious,” Sherlock said with a poorly concealed smile, reading Greg’s mind.

With a smile he couldn’t have fought off if he tried, he said slowly, “That would be a fucking gas.”

* * *

The atmosphere at The Wallace couldn’t have been more drastically different than that of The Crescent. While their standard hub was lively, well-lit, and alive with a crowd of socialites eager for an opportunity to engage in conversation and dance, The Wallace was a dark, quiet place, an escape for the daily turmoil of its patrons. Still, a gig was a gig and a bar was a bar.

Their set was good, with Philip offering a particularly skilled solo on his saxophone. Greg plucked softly to give a mellow, steady beat for Philip to groove against and after an impressive two minutes of enthralling jazz runs, Greg caught his eye and gave him an encouraging, dazzling smile. In response, Philip’s eyes went wide, his fingers slipping from their proper position for the smallest of seconds, and while the momentary loss of control was nearly indiscernible to the ignorant crowd they were playing for, it earned a stern look from Tobias.

Sherlock was incredible, of course. His vibrato more controlled and expertly executed than any Greg had ever heard on a man. The greatest moment of his performance came, however, when he would cross to the piano and, maintaining eye contact with John, scatted his way through several difficult key modulations. They worked as a wondrous unit, John’s eyes never wandering from Sherlock’s, even as his fingers continued to perform wondrous melodies. They communicated nonverbally with an ease that couldn’t have gone unnoticed by anyone around them. They acted as a unit, two halves of a whole, two drastically opposite sides of one coin.

Greg could not put into words how desperately he wanted such a bond.

They wrapped their set to a scattered round of polite applause, taking their leave off the stage to the modest backstage room with dust so thick, it was palpable on his tongue.

“You have to focus on that solo of yours,” chastised Tobias to Philip. “A slip like that might slide here but in front of a panel of judges-”

“I know, I know,” groaned Philip. “Trust me, I know. You can blame Greg for that, he distracted me.”

“Gregory-” started Tobias.

“Hey, hey!” defended Greg, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t blame me! If I had known my encouraging smile was going to stun him into making a mistake, I would have tried to be at least fifty per cent less charming.”

He cemented the sentiment with the most charming smile he could muster toward Tobias, who pushed his shoulder away in annoyance, though he swore he saw his lips twitch in a fight against a smile.

Tobias talked a big talk but at the end of the day, Greg knew him better than all that.

After placing down his bass in its familiar case, he jumped up to congratulate John on a job well done only to find that John had disappeared completely from the rest of them.

“Anyone seen John?” he asked at an elevated volume to no one in particular.

“I saw him leave opposite the rest of us with Sherlock toward the bar,” Sholto said, his shoulders straight, his trombone already in its case and held tightly in his rigid hand.

“Big surprise,” muttered Philip so softly, Greg was certain no one besides himself would have heard it. _Jealous git_ , thought Greg, trying and only somewhat failing to mask a responsive smile.

“I think they’ve got the right idea, actually,” Greg said, placing his contained bass against the wall where it would be safe while he joined his bandmates for a few drinks.

And Lord knew he needed one right now- a drink. He could feel the beloved numbing sensation of his pre-show whisky wearing off, the edges of the world approaching him with razor-sharp threats. His fingers were already itching for the cool touch of glass upon his fingertips. As the impacts of his last drink made its exit, the images, scent, and sounds of that damned camp began to overwhelm him in slow, brutal waves of recollection. If he didn’t feel the burning liquid flow down his throat within the next fifteen minutes, he was liable to crumble to the ground where he stood.

“Care to join me for a glass, Sholto?” he offered, sensing perhaps he wasn’t the only one needing it right about now. He might not be able to read a person’s entire life story like Sherlock, but he was intuitive enough to recognize that Sholto was going through a bit of something.

Sholto curtly shook his head, maintaining eye contact politely as he responded, “I’m afraid I will have to ask for a raincheck. I’ve something more important waiting for me at home.”

“Ah, best of luck to ya, then,” Greg said nonchalantly, though scanning Sholto under his eyelashes as he walked away from them, his march continuously that of a soldier’s. What sort of gathering was awaiting Sholto at his home?

He shrugged off the thoughts and walked out of the backstage area, approaching the bartender, his heart rate elevating with every further step. When he stepped up to the beaten, discoloured wood, he called his order (double whiskey, neat) to the bartender and, spotting his missing bandmates several tables away, called in a honied voice, “Oi, you two come here often?”

Sherlock, who’d been leaning halfway across the table in interest as John animatedly told a story that had them both smiling like absolute lunatics, reacted to Greg’s words first. For a reason Greg couldn’t figure, Sherlock’s eyes went wide with alarm instantly, his body jerking back in his seat away from John before whipping his head to find Greg several tables away. John reacted a bit slower, looking perplexed toward Sherlock until following his friend’s gaze and, upon seeing Greg’s laughing expression, went scarlet and leaned back in his seat as well.

He thanked the bartender and, drink in hand, strode over to the now-silent men.

“Ease up, mate,” Greg said, taking a drink of the delightfully cold amber liquid. “I’m not actually attempting to use my super successful pickup line on either of you.”

“Super successful?” asked John, his eyebrow raising and his tone dry as the dessert.

“He’s exaggerating, of course,” Sherlock chimed in. “Unless, of course, 11% is now a ‘super successful’ rate.”

Leave it to Sherlock to have the exact statistic at hand. “Piss off,” he said, his smile ruining any semblance of sincerity. “Mind if I join? Unless I’m mistaken, you were going to teach me some invaluable lessons on… what’d you call it? The _art of deduction_?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock said while John said, simultaneously, “Of course.”

“Brilliant!” With one long gulp of his beverage, the darkness, always at so close to overwhelming him, began to ebb away. He sighed in relief before looking back to Sherlock. “I’m going to get one more, yeah? Then we’ll have some fun.”

Greg may not have been as close to John or Sherlock as they were to each other, but as the hours faded away into laughter and jovial conversation, Greg was filled with appreciation for the shared bond he did have with the both of them. Even aware that the whiskey was providing him with goggles of affection and an increased inclination toward buoyant emotions, he knew the truth of it ran deep. When all was said and done, if they earned nothing from this experience- from the contest- then at least he would have the unbreakable bond that he had been certain could only be forged in the horrors of war.

Yet here, now, he felt the exact calibre of appreciation and loyalty to them both as he’d ever had to his fellow soldiers- and all while creating positive memories, not gruesome ones. It was a slow, freeing realization that John and Sherlock were not the only two band members he felt that camaraderie with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scene that I couldn't fit in but I need to make sure my readers know about: After spending a few hours messing around with John and Sherlock that night, Sherlock remarks that Greg wouldn't make a bad detective. As a final test of his deductive skills, he asks Greg to deduce John. Greg looks at him up and down for a long time before saying "well he's clearly dressed a date, isn't he? Guess he got stood up, though, seeing as how it's so late." A long silence follows while John flushes, stammering denials that are not remotely believable. Sherlock's eyes widen in realization, saying "What an interesting theory..."  
> Greg believes it's because John is embarrassed to have been stood up but we know the truth, don't we? ;)
> 
> Oh, Greg. Oh, my beautiful, lovely, deeply troubled, loving Greg. This chapter was initially much longer (4k words) BUT I am just one person. So elements had to be chopped. I just want an entire spin-off to analyze Greg's self-preservation through disassociation.  
> I know this end note is an ungodly length already but I want to mention that this week's chapters won't have the number 97 in them for reasons that I will explain later.


	16. William

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wiggins doesn't say much. Wiggins doesn't get too much attention. Wiggins is, by all accounts, a background character to the other members of his band.  
> Wiggins doesn't remember his past.  
> But he has one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This opening note contains TWs that are minor spoilers to the progression of the chapter. If you aren't bothered or triggered by anything, you can skip over this note to be surprised by the plot.  
> Otherwise...  
>  **Warning!** This is an angsty ( _heavy_ angst, in my opinion) chapter with the following trigger warnings:  
> mentions of memory loss  
> mentions of lobotomy/surgery  
> mentions of drugs

**16 July 1941**

The first thing he was aware of was the blistering heat, boiling him alive as he remained motionless, unable to escape the agony. The second thing he processed was the crawling, teasing journey of two beads of sweat along the expanse of his forehead.

There was an equal desire to vomit and scream, both in reaction to pain that was wracking his every nerve ending. If he could move, if he could have made a single motion, he would only attempt to peel his skin clean off. Anything to make the torture end. In this wish, he came to realize that the heat was not a result of external elements, but rather radiating from deep within himself.

To his frantic mind, he seemed to spend a lifetime in that paralysis. If he’d been able to see a clock, he would have known it was only five minutes and fourteen seconds between the moment his mind achieved consciousness and the moment his fingers successfully curled into a weak first.

Relief washed over him for the briefest of moments- he wasn’t paralyzed. But the relief succumbed to fear in no time at all as he focused on attempting to open his eyes. He could initially only manage to move a few of the muscles surrounding his eyes, though when he finally succeeded in pulling open one lid, he heard a sudden desperate, frantic cry of “My God- Will!”

_ Will? _

Come to think of it, where was he? How did he get here?

The room was dimly lit and still, the light struck a bolt of electric agony along his spine when his eye opened to the scene around him. His back arched against the pain and God, couldn’t anyone do something to quell the person who was shrieking for help next to him?

“Will!” screamed the vague form of a man beside him who gripped his shoulders and pushed down to stop his pained twitches from wracking his body. “Doc, we need you!  _ NOW! _ ” Every location that those hands applied pressure against him was a new needle of torture. Only when the nonsensical screaming got louder, more distraught, did it occur to him that his own throat was vibrating with the sound of it.

He was the one screaming.

He shut his mouth to try and halt the effect but only succeeded in muffling the production of sound. Because he was on fire and there was nowhere in the world to escape because all there was in the entire universe was pain and confusion.

New footsteps approached, a deep, croaking voice demanding loudly, “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” said the first man whose hands miraculously lifted from his chest. “He barely opened his eyes and he just started screaming. What’s wrong with him, Doc?”

The voice was brimming with terror that did nothing to soothe his own nerves as the reality of what was happening sunk in and began to increase the panic within himself. The doctor was leaning over him now, shining a light into his wide, wild eyes.

“I don’t know.”

His high, whine of pain was continuous, desperate. He couldn’t have made it stop if he wanted. He was burning alive, surely. Where were the flames?

“William,” said the doctor sternly. “Do you know what happened to you?”

He tried to say “No, sir,” but found himself incapable of speech through his pain. Instead, he shook his head and regretted the choice instantly for how it resulted in a rush of aching pain through his brain.

“Do you know your full name?”

“No,” he croaked, though mostly only the first letter escaped.

“What is wrong with him?” repeated the first man, voice cracking in unmistakable fear. It was difficult to take in any details at all, but he saw a spout of short, blond hair. He saw an angular face, and brown eyes that he was certain stirred recognition deep within him.

“I don’t know,” said the Doctor impatiently. “William, we need to operate immediately. We’re going to put you under, okay?”

It was a blur. It was painful. It was terrifying- until it wasn’t and the world slipped away.

* * *

“Do you know your name?”

“No.”

“Do you know your birthday?”

“No.”

“There’s a young man by the name of John Rance who is quite desperate to speak to you. Do you know this gentleman?”

A pause. “No.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

Another, significantly longer pause. “A doctor and… pain. A lot of pain.”

“And before that?”

“Nothing.”

“And are you in pain still?”

Yes. But it was better. At least he wasn’t screaming. “No,” he lied.

The nurse wrote down his answers, a loathed look of pity in her eyes that he wished she could refrain from giving in his company.

“What happened to me?” he asked, and talking was like swimming through cold molasses. Each word was a step up an impossibly steep mountain in a vicious snowstorm. His thoughts were only remotely faster. It was the exact sensation as one waking from an extremely deep slumber, the world confusing and surreal. But in those instances, the pieces came together as consciousness was regained.

But the pieces weren’t coming together. There was only confusion, his thinking process laboured and lagging.

She looked up from her clipboard and, swallowing hard, she said in a solemn tone, “You obtained a severe head trauma, sir. We found a bullet in there. You underwent surgery and the doctor removed the bullet. When you awoke, however, your pain appeared to be significant and you weren’t capable of functioning.”

She stopped talking then. Perhaps she thought he wouldn’t ask any further questions. Perhaps she thought her story was complete. Yet he felt very much like he was missing something. Or perhaps it wasn’t her at all. Perhaps he was the one who didn’t understand. His brain did, after all, feel ten steps behind. Her words were processing slowly and his swirling mind wasn’t sure he could keep up.

“But… what happened after that?”

“You underwent a second surgery, sir.”

“What- what did he do?”

She put the clipboard down and, wearing a smile that was thin as paper, said, “You still had shards of debris lodged in your brain, sir. He performed a top-of-the-line surgery, removing the shards as well as the portion of your brain that was impacted the most. Your quality of life will be much better and your pain reduced in conjunction.”

He stared at her, the words failing to arrive in a prompt manner. Instead, they were pulled painstakingly out. “Ma’am, did he perform a lobotomy?” He truly did not know how he knew the word or its meaning. It lived in him, ready to be extracted by pure instinct.

“Yes, sir. He did.”

* * *

**21 September 1941**

Everything he knew of himself he learned from John Rance.

According to John Rance, his name was William Wiggins. He went by Will.

According to John Rance, he was 23 years old.

According to John Rance, he’d been performing undercover intelligence work for the Royal Marines when he obtained his initial injury. It was an ambush.

According to John Rance, he had loved hiking and puzzles. He loved mind games and fishing.

According to John Rance, they had been the best of friends.

Yet knowing all of these facts did not allow him to recognize himself. It was as though a stranger was telling him about another stranger.

Whoever he used to be was a stranger.

“Will” was not a person he knew. “Will” was not a person he would ever be able to be again. He was someone else entirely now.

The career centre for veterans was musty, its fluorescent lights flickering above him. He’d been discharged from the military over two months ago and still, there was not a viable place for him in the civilian world.

“What’s your name, then?” asked the veteran sitting next to him in the waiting area.

“Wiggins,” he decided to say. He didn’t recognize any portion of “William” anymore.

“Any luck making income through these buffoons?”

Wiggins turned his head to face the man. He had dark, puffy circles under his eyes and uneven stubble across his jawline. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembling. Still, at least he wasn’t talking down to him. Most people did.

“‘Fraid not,” he said slowly. Everything he said was slow now.

The man released a long “hmm,” scanning Wiggins up and down as though sizing him up. When it appeared to satisfy his judgement, he said, “I’ve got an opening in my own private business. But it ain't necessarily- strictly speaking- legal.”

But he was living on the street. He hadn’t eaten a meal in days. And he clearly wasn’t going to get a legal job anytime soon. There was not a thriving market for brain-damaged folk.

“What’s it pay?”

“Real good, bud. Usually more than a hundred a month, in fact.”

_ Good God _ . With that sort of money, he could get a flat- pay for food, drink clean water.

“I’m in.”

* * *

**Present Day- Mid January 1946**

“Dear God,” John said under his breath, his tone alive with complete bewildered, hanging up the phone that Al had asked him to answer. “That was another offer for a gig in two weeks- on the 22nd.”

“We can do that,” said Sherlock, skin glowing more prominently than he’d ever seen. His eyes were clear, his demeanour relaxed.

It had been exactly 59 days, or eight weeks and three days, since Sherlock had been around to his quiet, dingy hole-in-the-wall alleyway to purchase the product to satisfy his addiction. How good of the younger Holmes to have successfully stayed away. Wiggins knew first-hand how desperate his situation had become with his addiction before he met John.

“You’re going to wear us down, Johnny,” Greg said with a mock yawn.

“It’s  _ fifty pounds  _ for a one-hour performance,” John defended, his eyes dancing with delight. “That’s more than worth a bit of exhaustion.”

He fully agreed with John. Even without the high pay rate, this- the band, the friends, the performing, the practices- was, far and wide, the most excellent portion of his life.

“Easy for you to say. It’s not like you get any sleep anyway,” teased Philip.

“Shove off,” John laughed. “What does that bring our total to anyway, Philip?”

“Uh-”

“Nine hundred fifty-seven pounds and five shillings,” Wiggins answered without missing a beat. His words resonated in the stark silence that followed his calculation. It would have been splendid if they could have refrained from looking quite so surprised, but he couldn’t necessarily blame them. The speed and accuracy of his response surprised even himself a bit.

After a long, stunned silence, John finally spoke with a hoarse voice, “Bloody hell, mate. How’d you do that?”

How  _ did _ he do that? He could barely string together a verbal sentence yet numbers came to life within him with ease.

“I have  _ no _ idea,” he admitted with a half-smile that reflected his genuinity.

“Well blimey, I reckon we’ve got a regular Sidis on our hands,” laughed Greg. “No offence mate, but I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”

“Absolutely no offence taken,” he assured his friend.

And he meant it. Because he might not be “Will” anymore, but the man he used to be _did_ exist somewhere deep within him now. He would pop out now and then and supply him with a surge of information that he couldn’t consciously reach.

* * *

Late January in Cardiff was insufferable, the cold penetrating through every thread on his jacket to seep into his skin, the cold reaching the very deepest portion of his bones. This excessively frigid air did nothing to quell his chronic pain. Wiggins curled in on himself, only willingly exposing his eyes as he tucked the rest of himself away beneath layers.

Those who bought from him knew he would be here for the next three hours if they needed their supply so he would remain here, frozen, for a time that would feel like an eternity.

He’d heard so much about the warmth that these drugs brought upon their users and, not for the first time, wondered if they would help ease the pain of it all.

It was 48 minutes in still silence when he heard the soft shuffling of feet upon the pavement a short distance away. He rose his head toward the sound and saw a figure moving with confidence toward him.

“Fancy a stroll in the park?” Wiggins called to the shadowed figure, his signature call to potential clients.

“I think not, William. I prefer to ride my horse around the park.”

It was the correct answer to his question, yet the voice that spoke the words and spoke his name sent a shiver of nerves down his spine. And now, with the figure so much closer, he recognized the figure of the man as well as his voice. Tall, thin, and with impeccable posture, Wiggins should have recognized him by his approaching strut.

“You know why I’m here?” he inquired, his tone bored.

“Yes, sir.”

He always came for the same reason: to check in.

“Get on with it, then,” the man prompted impatiently.

Wiggins swallowed, wishing the indistinct words swimming around in his head could fall from his mouth easily and eloquently.

“Your brother’s clean, Mr. Holmes. Hasn’t been around in ages.”

“Good. And you’ve maintained my point of contact information in the event he succumbs again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yourself?”

“Stayed off the stuff, sir.”

He’d been initially contacted by Holmes the elder mere minutes following his first sale to Sherlock over four years ago. Still, though, Mycroft Holmes’ ancient threat that had been whispered in the night echoed in his mind as clearly as the moment he’d spoken it: “So long as you cooperate with my reasonable requests and stay off of your own stash, I will see to it that you are protected from legal repercussions for your career choice. However, the moment I catch a even a whisper of usage on your behalf, that protection will be immediately removed. Do you understand?”

Since that day, every serious temptation he’d harboured to try the many drugs he possessed had diminished. His curiosity remained, surely. Not even an hour ago he’d wondered if it would help. But the promise of safety from the largest danger of his profession was far too appealing to result in any real remaining desire.

“Good man,” Mycroft continued professionally. “I’ve one additional request to make while I’m here. It’s a portion of the reason for my visit today.”

“Anything,” he vowed. He meant it- Mycroft Holmes’ requests were nothing if not fair and his protection was critical.

“There will almost certainly come a time in the near future that my brother seeks you out, desperate for his next fix.”

“Why’s that?”

Mycroft deliberated this question for a moment, his fingertips drumming together twice before he folded his hands behind his back and said softly, “Call it a brother’s intuition.”

But Sherlock had been doing an incredible job staying clean since he joined the band. Still, he possessed neither the command of verbal communication nor the desire to argue this point with Mycroft.

“If he comes to you again- or rather  _ when _ he comes to you again,” Mycroft pressed forward, “you are to give him this exact product.” He withdrew a silky pouch that was a vibrant enough blue to shine even in the pale moonlight.

“Aye, aye, sir,” he vowed, reaching out a hand for the pouch.

“You’re not going to inquire why?” asked Mycroft, amused, placing it gently in his hand.

Wiggins simply shrugged, unable to communicate a clear sentiment beyond that.

“Brilliant,” he drawled. “Please confirm what you are to do when my brother shows up for his next fix.”

Wiggins took a  deep breath, placed the pouch in an empty pocket that contained no other drugs, gathered his words mentally before speaking, slow and steady. “Give him this pouch. Don’t tell him where I got it. After I give it to him, walk over to the payphone around the corner and call for you with the money you’ve given me.”

Mycroft gave him a rare smile, nodding his head minutely. “Exactly right.” He turned on his heels then and, walking away confidently, called out, “Always a pleasure, William. I’ll be awaiting your call.”

At all times, there was only room for one thought in Wiggins’ head. When he was at home, that thought was trying to ignore his chronic pain. When he was with the band, that thought was how much he enjoyed being with the lot of them. When he was playing a song with the band, that thought was an unbreakable, simple focus on the beat. As he watched Mycroft walk away, that thought was contemplating what could possibly make him so certain that Sherlock was going to succumb to his addiction again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof.
> 
> [Reference to Sidis explained: William Sidis is considered to be the smartest man to have ever lived.](https://www.npr.org/2011/01/23/132737060/meet-william-james-sidis-the-smartest-guy-ever)
> 
> I'm seriously missing the Johnlock element and I'm sure many of you are as well. I hope you will maintain some patience as we explore these other characters. I promise the Johnlock love and drama will return in full swing very soon and it will be worth the wait.  
>  In the meantime, let's fall in love with our other band members.


	17. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t that Philip Anderson hated Sherlock Holmes. It was that _nobody_ hated Sherlock Holmes.  
> Greg said he was jealous.  
> Perhaps he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for another ~style change~?

It wasn’t that Philip Anderson hated Sherlock Holmes. It was that _nobody_ hated Sherlock Holmes.

He possessed all the qualities of a person who should have been damned unbearable and yet the man drew affection with an ease that was frankly infuriating.

Greg said he was jealous.

Perhaps he was right.

* * *

Philip had been seventeen years old when it first occurred to him that he didn’t like girls. He recalled the moment in vivid detail, the moment his entire world was shattered beneath him in a kaleidoscope of scintillating colour:

He’d been standing with his best mate of the time- Jonathan. (The irony of life’s pattern was not lost upon Philip- but he was getting ahead of himself.) A dame passed the pair of them in the school hallway, her sweater tight and her auburn hair pinned to perfection in a rather gorgeous style. As she passed them both, her fragrance drifted through the air as potent as the musky floral aroma in the middle of a cast garden. Jonathan, in response, turned to Philip and released a low whistle, his eyebrows raised and said: “I’d love to be that there sweater to hug her body that tightly, yeah?”

And Philip could not muster an answer. Because in truth? No. It hadn’t occurred to him in even the smallest magnitude that that sophomore girl was attractive. It hadn’t crossed his mind in a whisper or as a shadow of inclination. Then, a grander revelation: as his friends developed and matured, they’d all obtained crushes and become increasingly amorous toward various women while Philip remained stubbornly unimpressed by the whole of the gender.

Yet in that moment, as Jonathon searched Philip’s eyes for the agreeance in his objectification, Philip found a different sort of affection. Those eyes- the eyes of his best friend, the eyes that accompanied oh so many of his greatest memories- made him go positively weak in the knees.

So there it was. Philip didn’t like women and also it was possible that he was enamoured with his best mate.

Philip’s life would have been so much easier if he could have continued to live in denial. It was a thought that would come frequently to him since his heart was a damned fool. His heart didn’t understand what his brain knew far too well: there could be no realization of any desire he held. Ever.

As for Jonathan, the most thrilling part of that saga has already been told. After Philip realized he had feelings for him, those feelings wouldn’t be silenced. Nothing of their dynamic changed, but he spent most of their time together pining after the gorgeous young man. Jonathan proceeded to date a respectable string of women and Philip learned far too early in his life what it was to squash down jealousy that would threaten to consume him.

Then he went to uni and his object of affection shortened in two senses of the word: Tall, lanky Jonathan became a thing of the past and short, stocky John Watson replaced him. His very first words to Philip had been “Excellent finger work on that sax,” and Philip, mouth dry and heart racing, had been instantly in trouble.

Still, there was nothing to be done. Over the years, Philip was so accustomed to pining with no avail that it became a verifiable character trait. Philip Anderson: intelligent, shy, short-tempered, and also a hopeless, pining romantic.

Being in the military was a proper nightmare due to the battles, trenches, and killings. But meeting Private Lestrade at a point in the war when Philip had never felt more isolated and hopeless? That was an entirely new sort of nightmare.

See, Private Lestrade- or, “Greg”, as he’d insisted Philip call him in private- was not just gorgeous, charming, and hilarious, but also damned flirty to a dangerous extent. Brutal nights on the frozen ground, covered with nothing but a thin, patched, military-issued blanket were made marginally better when Greg would offer up his own blanket to sooth Philip’s shaking body.

“I’ll make do without it,” he assured Philip when he stammered his resistance. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me somehow,” he added in a hushed whisper and winked before rolling over to face away from him.

Mouth dry and thoughts racing, Philip did not sleep at all that night.

Of course, he learned in time that that was just how Greg acted. That knowledge didn’t prevent Philip’s stammering every time he flashed a perfect smile his direction, but it did prevent him from developing an unmanageable crush.

That wasn’t to say that the war did not cause a great deal of distress in ways unrelated to his sexuality crisis. There was a multitude of scars that were obtained across his mind and body. It was inescapable. One by one, Philip saw his brothers in arms succumb to disease, die from infected wounds, or otherwise lose their ability to cope with the constant demand of war.

The war bothered some less than others. Perhaps if he could have stopped fixating on the misery of those around him, he wouldn’t have been so bothered by the extent of human suffering that surrounded him every day and night.

It seemed to Philip that everything he had ever gone through was simply preparing him for the thick guard he now put between himself and everyone else around him. He exited the military at long last and finally go to law school- a long-time dream of his.

Law school made sense. He could control his fate, control some small aspect of his life when everything else always seemed to be frenzied and refractory. He could hyper-fixate on rules, logic, and due process. In this strictly structured career path, he would have discipline and be able to focus on fighting the many situations he found unjust in this world. It was an attempt to structure his life while still helping others in some small way.

So here he was: nearly twenty-eight, a virgin, fixating on his studies to cope with his memories and feelings, and nowhere nearer reconciling his sexuality with the expectations of the society around him. Instead, he was in deeper trouble than ever.

Reconnecting with John Watson brought forward feelings that he had believed had dissipated. Rather, it turns out they were simply dormant, waiting for his return to awaken. He’d always thought maybe- just maybe- John was hiding a part of himself as well. Actually, Philip still thought that. It was a beacon of hope for him, this minor, microscopic possibility that he wouldn’t have to be alone. Or at least, it _had_ been a beacon of hope.

Because who would have thought that John would turn away from Philip almost entirely to place another man on a pedestal high enough that Philip couldn’t even reach?

Sherlock Holmes.

He was undoubtedly stunning and talented, but even these qualities were not enough to ease the resentment that raged inside him at the sight of him.

Sherlock Holmes.

He was also brilliant and perceptive. He was also friendly, if not a bit odd. He was a skilled musician and writer. He was poised and his motions were elegant.

Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes.

He made Philip a background character where he was once a lead. John looked at him as though he were the sun and the stars wrapped into one in a way he’d never looked at Philip. It was not uncommon for Greg to run off and spend time with him too. If Philip and Sherlock both made a suggestion, the band was certainly going to agree with Sherlock.

Philip had felt many things in his lifetime. But never before had he felt unimportant.

Sherlock Holmes made him feel pretty unimportant.

So now he was Philip Anderson: overlooked, alone, hardened, and not even second-best.

Greg said he was jealous.

On second thought, he was definitely right.

* * *

“I think we should give the solo to Philip.”

“Hey,” Philip protested, shooting daggers at Sherlock. “Don’t do me any favours.”

“It isn’t a favour,” he said impatiently, not looking up from the sheet music. “I think you’d execute this best. See this run on measure 102? Your skill set would compliment that portion quite well. And that progression of notes with no air for five measures? Starting at 134? You’ve got the best air capacity.”

“You know, I’d be offended, but I actually agree,” said Greg.

“Plus,” chimed John, “it’s gotta be lively. Tobias can’t pull that shit off.”

“I don’t know that you’re talking about,” Tobias said, tone as dry as barren land. “I’m nothing if not lively.”

Greg, who always seemed to be the first to recognize when Tobias was joking, snorted as he laughed.

“So we give it to Philip, yeah?” confirmed John.

“Aye,” agreed the rest of them.

It was a small win, but it was a win. A win that he had desperately needed.

* * *

“Now?”

“If you fancy it.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been told it’s what friends do. Go out.”

“But- what?” _Friends?_

“Greg told me about it. Friends spend time together and usually drinks are involved. Though that second part could be Greg’s bias talking.”

The other members shuffled out after short practice while Philip was stunned to the place where he stood. He saw John provide the pair of them with one last glance before he, too, took his exit.

“But- _why_?”

Sherlock sighed, an evident sign of exasperation. “Because despite what you believe, you and I have a great deal in common. And I… enjoy your company when you possess the right temperament.”

Philip very much doubted this. But the offer of friendship was far too tempting to deny. And furthermore, his willingness to extend kindness despite his own frankly appalling behaviour stirred guilt from deep within himself. Which is how he came to release a reluctant, “Alright. Sure.”

* * *

Okay. There may be a small- _incredibly_ tiny- minuscule, actually- part of Philip that could _possibly_ understand why John liked Sherlock so much.

Admitting the fact, even to himself, made him indubitably cranky.

It was hard to maintain his sour attitude, however, when Sherlock told him a joke that resulted in his beverage exiting through his nose.

Philip had never been to the bar Sherlock brought him to before, but it certainly had to be a terrible place for men seeking to hit on women. As far as Philip could see, there wasn’t a single woman in the whole joint. Instead, there was nothing but men, mostly alone or in pairs. But the atmosphere was friendly, the drinks delicious, and the music wonderful.

Sherlock’s ability to “read” others was certainly something that had come up frequently. In fact, his exceptional ability to decipher a person’s life in an instant had been a source of terror in Philip the first several times he’d engaged with him. However, when it became apparent that Sherlock was not aware of his hidden sexuality and that he was safe from being exposed, that fear subsided to allow for further resentment.

But what was so amazing about spending time with Sherlock one-on-one was that even when he would expertly deduce a fact or person, Philip never felt like those analytical eyes were turned toward _him_. It was like being in on the joke instead of being the butt of it.

And against all odds, he was having fun.

After some time- four drinks for Philip while Sherlock had barely touched his first- Sherlock fell silent, his eyes locked on something behind him in a suddenly deep concentration.

“Can I ask you for a favour?” he said quite abruptly.

“I- sure?” Philip said, startled by the drastic change in his demeanour.

“See that man over there?”

He turned in his seat to catch sight of the subject of Sherlock’s gaze. The figure his eyes settled upon was handsome enough to cause a blossoming colour in his cheeks. The stranger was wearing a blue collared shirt that was unbuttoned to reveal a spectacular clavicle, his hair a shade so dark that in the dim light of this bar, it was impossible to tell if his hair was a dark brown or jet black. Either way, the colour of it complimented his pale skin. He possessed a square jaw, an easy crooked smile, a lean figure, and an effortless confidence that reminded him vaguely of Greg.

Not to be indelicate, but he was _hot_.

“Yes,” Philip answered, putting excessive effort into preventing his voice from shaking.

“You need to go talk to him.”

He laughed, certain his companion was making a joke. A joke he didn’t really understand, but a joke nevertheless. When he didn’t laugh, however, Philip’s laugh got caught in his throat and fell silent. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

He gave Sherlock a long, quizzical look. What the hell was he thinking? How was he supposed to just _go talk_ to a (hot) stranger? _Why_ was he supposed to go talk to him? Why couldn’t he do it himself? He knew Sherlock well enough to know he’d never obtain a straightforward, honest answer to any of those questions. The man loved to avoid answers by instead providing replies he thought were clever.

He weighed his options. In truth, he _did_ want to go talk to the man. And Sherlock’s request for him to do so gave him an excellent excuse to go do so. He could pretend to find the ordeal dreadful while revelling in just a bit of self-indulgence.

Alright, fine then. He would do it. For Sherlock, of course.

“Fine,” he groaned, pretending to rise reluctantly. “But you owe me.”

Suppressing the desire to check himself in the nearest mirror, he took a deep breath and walked slowly over to where the man stood. To his surprise, the devilishly handsome gentleman turned to him as he approached, his mouth curving into a smile that could have caused a traffic collision.

“Hi-de-ho,” he said, voice smooth as silk and rich as honey. His accent was… American? “I was wondering how many times I’d have to toss you a look before you came over. Fancy a drink?”

How many times he’d have to what? Fancy a what?

As far as he could see, he had two options: throw it in reverse and gush his denial _or_ he could try to play it cool.

He’d done the former too many times before. And Sherlock did need him to talk to this man, apparently. He couldn’t let Sherlock down.

He smiled slyly, an ambiguous look that lent him a cool air of mystery. Then, so easily it felt foreign to him, he said: “Only if you’ll join me to drink it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sherlock _is_ sneaky, isn't he?  
> (It was a gay bar.)  
> (He set him up. On purpose. Because he saw the guy staring and knew Philip needed an excuse to go initiate contact.)
> 
> The man he was introduced to is based on the actor who plays John's equivalent character from Bandstand. Just my way of giving another nod to the source material. :)  
> (Actor name: Corey Cott, Character name: Donny Novitski.)  
> Pictures:  
> 
> 
> Four down, three to go. They're getting easier to guess as our list of characters dwindles down. :)


	18. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Sholto's life was beyond picture-perfect before the war.  
> Where did it all go so wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder

**Mid-June 1927**

He was twenty years old when she was nineteen. He was an absolute twit at the time; headstrong, wild, and free. Back in those days, he loved to engage in foolish activities with his friends. 

There were not very many dames who were eager to avoid a young, (incredibly) handsome rugby player. He stood at an impressive 189 centimetres tall with shoulders broad enough to stretch the fabric of nearly every shirt he could plausibly purchase. James Sholto, with his friendly eyes and thicket of auburn-brown hair, was a verifiable hunk.

He was at the carnival with four of his friends when he first laid eyes on her. She was playing a game involving plastic rings and glass bottles, laughing easily as she missed one after the other; her strawberry blonde hair was cascading in thick, perfect ringlets over her shoulders and down her back, her cheeks were plump and rosy, her smile natural and stunning. Her pink dress was modest, falling just past her knees, though it wrapped tightly around her waistline in a bunching of fabric. She was with another woman who equally stunning, though somehow seemed to dim in the light of her friend. His own mates disagreed, trying to persuade him into approaching her raven-haired friend instead. 

But she was the most stunning woman he had ever laid eyes on.

James Sholto was, for the first time in his entire life, frozen where he stood. For the first time in his life, his heart was racing at the prospect of approaching a woman.

After few minutes of gathering up his courage (a ritual he was not used to performing), he sauntered up to where she stood, leaning against the wall next to her and feigning confidence as he said: “Need some help with that there game, little lady?” 

Her wide, emerald green eyes turned to him in surprise and, with a smile that stopped his heart, said: “No, thank you.”

Then she turned away.

She was the first woman to ever stun him into silence.

“I- Did you say ‘no’?” he asked, wholly bewildered.

She turned reluctantly back to him, and pretending to consider the question, answered, “No, I believe I added a ‘thank you’ in there.”

“But- May I ask why?”

“Because boneheads who come to carnivals to pick up women don’t impress me.”

“That’s not- No. Please, miss, let me explain,” he said, though uncertain of what he would say if she did decide to let him explain.

“Tell you what,” she said, giving the remaining rings in her hand to her friend, who turned around and continued trying to get the rings around the bottles in her place. “I will hear you out if you can tell me your thoughts on the bill that is going through Parliament right now called the Representation of the People Act.”

She stood no taller than his chest and yet she radiated a power and confidence that made him dizzy with admiration. She was  _ perfect _ .

But wait- the  _ what _ act?

“Er-” He was debating between telling the truth (he didn’t know what that act was) and pretending to take a stance (“If it passes, it will be a damned shame!”). But in his uncertainty, he considered for too long.

“Right,” she said, still smiling kindly. Behind her, her friend threw the last of the rings and missed. “So thank you, but again, no thank you.”

Linking her arm through her friend’s, the pair of them walked away with an easy grace. There was no logic in his head, only the absolute certainty that he had just fallen in love with her then and there.

“Wait!” he called, jogging to keep up with her. She didn’t turn around but smiled when he fell into step next to her. “I don’t know what it is, okay? But I’ll find out. Please, give me a chance. You know Rita’s?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, the word more of a question than a statement. This was clearly not a woman who was easily surprised, and yet he’d succeeded in catching her off guard.

“I’ll be there. All day tomorrow and all day the next day. I’m going to research everything about the bill, okay? And I’ll be waiting there to tell you every thought I have on it.” He said it seriously, refusing to break eye contact so she would be able to read his sincerity.

“My name’s James,” he continued. “You don’t have to show up. I won’t fault you. But I’ll be there if you decide to give me a second chance at impressing you.”

She left him with a cautious but impressed, “I’ll think about it, James.”

That night, he made good on his promise. He slept barely a wink in favour of learning every possible fact of the aforementioned bill- as well as other current events in case she asked. As it turned out, the proposed bill would provide women with the right to vote. It was an expansion of a previous act, this one allowing women equal political electorates as men. Women over 21 would be able to vote regardless of property ownership.

His friends had teased him for abandoning them in order to research politics to impress a dame. In truth, he normally wouldn’t have done so. But this woman- this beautiful, strong, funny, intelligent woman- was different. He couldn’t explain it and he couldn’t permit himself to give up before even trying.

He sat alone in Rita’s (drinking more tea than should be legal) for seven hours and thirteen minutes. When she finally walked in, he was certain his smile had never been wider than it was at that moment. He sat up straighter, doing his best to impress her.

“You really are here,” she said, a surprised smile on her face when she saw him in the booth by the window. She was more dressed down than she had been the night prior, but she was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him.

“Been here all day,” he said, goofy smile plastered on his face. “You can ask anyone here.”

She gave a side-eye to one waitress who provided a small, encouraging nod. She approached the table, though refused to sit down. She folded her hands in front of her, a cautiously optimistic look in her eyes.  
“So?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“The Representation of the People Act would grant wider voting opportunities to women in Britain.”

“And what are your thoughts?”

He smiled the truest smile he could muster, and said with complete sincerity, “It’s about damn time.”

She grinned, looking as brilliant as the sun and finally, finally, finally, sat down across from him in the old booth, her guard dropping visibly.

“I’m impressed, James,” she admitted. “I’m Charlotte.”

* * *

**December 1928**

Their wedding was flawless in every imaginable way. He loved her more dearly than could be tolerated. He’d always been more than capable of having fun, but his times with her were the best of his life. They went on crazy adventures, had heated debates about current events (she was always right at the end of it), and laughed until they were both in pain from it.

Every day was better than the one before.

He wouldn’t have chosen any other life over the one he had with her. She challenged him to grow, she presented him with a beautiful appreciation of life, her laugh could have revived him from the deepest of sorrows. He loved her deeply, truly, passionately. He was married to the most perfect woman on the planet.

* * *

**Spring 1935**

He couldn’t believe it.

“ _ What _ ?”

Her eyes were brimming with tears, grinning so that every tooth was reflecting light back to him. She choked down a sob and said, once more, “I’m pregnant, James.”

The shock left him motionless. The news crept into realization and he felt tears sting his eyes, a wild, unstoppable smile spreading slowly, so slowly.

“You’re pregnant.”

She nodded.

“You’re pregnant!” he shouted, the news finally sinking in completely. He was going to be a father. He was going to raise a baby with the woman of his dreams. “Oh, my God!” he cheered, utterly unashamed of the tears flowing down his cheeks. “ _ You’re pregnant! _ ”

He swept her into a tight hug, her arms linking around his neck.

His life was perfect.

* * *

**September 1939**

He was off to war and Charlotte was pregnant again.

The military used to be a good choice for James and Charlotte during the non-conflict years.

When the war was declared, he was a Captain, having commissioned in the Marines in 1934.

“It’s alright,” he reassured her the evening before he would be shipped off. “I’ll be back in no time and everything will be just like it was before. I promise.”

It was the only lie he ever told her.

* * *

**August 1945**

Sholto could not be certain when his desire for perfection had become an obsession. For far too long, he’d brushed aside his ticks as a simple result of those principles which were instilled by the Marines. He didn’t have a problem, he just liked things to be clean. He didn’t have a problem, he just liked things organized. He didn’t have a problem, he just had his rituals.

By the time his behaviour was noticeably a problem, it was too late.

One night, Charlotte had walked into his study, her dressing gown wrinkled from sleep. It was three in the morning and, gazing around at the disastrous room, asked him what he was doing. He had told her that he couldn’t sleep knowing that the books weren’t organized.

She said nothing that night.

One evening, they arrived at a party 45 minutes late because Sholto had a mild panic attack that he could not get his medals and patches straight on his military blues. When she’d attempted to quell him and offered to help, he snapped at her to leave him alone.

She said nothing that night.

One day, she’d done his laundry without asking. It had been meant as a kind gesture, but he entered a state of utter panic, hyperventilating as he snatched the clothes from her hamper and tried to explain to her that it  _ did _ matter which order they were washed in.

She had said nothing that day.

For years, she watched her husband sink deeper and deeper into his compulsions, watched as his obsessions grew. As he got worse, he grew unrecognizable to her. The disease consumed him whole. They didn’t laugh together, didn’t go on adventures. In fact, they could barely hold a conversation without James’ fixations taking hold and interrupting their leisurely time.

He couldn’t control it. He couldn’t stop it. Even as he thought to himself, “this is unnecessary,” the cruel monster inside his mind said, more loudly, “If you don’t check the stove again, fold these perfectly, fix the broken record, and place the spices upon the wrack  _ perfectly _ , terrible things are going to happen.”

He was at war with himself. The Marines never trained him for this strong of an opponent.

Then one morning five days ago, his eldest son, Michael, said to Charlotte as he was getting ready for school: “No, mummy, I  _ need _ to brush my hair exactly seven times! Just like daddy does.”

It was too much. It was the last straw. Charlotte took the boys to her sister’s house and, sobbing, asked, “What has happened to you, James?”

It was a question he had no answer to. He used to be a good husband, a wonderful father, and full of life. The man she agreed to marry wouldn’t recognize the man he was now. The man she married was trapped within in a consuming cycle he couldn’t escape. She had been supportive of his struggles all along, tried to help him adjust, but it was not her job to fix him.

He couldn’t blame her for leaving- he had accidentally brought her down into hell with him. It wasn’t fair to her. He didn’t want this life for his sons. He certainly didn’t want to subject Charlotte- beautiful, amazing, perfect Charlotte- to it anymore.

But he didn’t know what to do.

* * *

**Present Day- Early February 1946**

She was late. It was okay. He had to reassure himself that it was okay. In all likelihood, this was a test. If that was true, then any distemperment toward her would prove counterproductive to his goal.

Instead of fixating on every second further his watch clicked from 1300, he made a point to take in the scene around him. The walls were a pale blue, the colour fading a bit more every day when the sun set through the windows. Mild, unobtrusive paintings were hung in precise increments throughout the place, and he would know- he checked.

The two waitresses on staff at the moment were women in their golden years, their smiles offering comfort to their patrons as they bustled from table to table. They were in the middle of the lunch rush, though neither compromised their friendly nature for the sake of speed. Every customer in the place was leaning back, conversing easily with their partners, be it a spouse, a date, or a business meeting. 

What would these other guests assume Sholto was here for? Would they see him with her and assume it was the beginning of a romantic connection?

Once upon a time, in this exact booth, it had been.

It felt like a lifetime ago. Or rather, a story he’d heard once that he was surprised to learn was a story of his own.

She walked in after seven minutes of painstaking waiting. Her hair was shorter than it’d been the last time he’d seen her. She found him without looking, knowing- perhaps instinctually- that he would be in their booth. She slid in across from him but didn’t meet his eyes.

“Good afternoon, Lottie.”

It pained him more than he could possibly express to see so little life in her expression.

“Hello, James.”

The tension was thick between them. When did it all go so wrong?

“You look beautiful,” he said to the table.

“Thank you.” Her words were stiff.

Breath shaking, he asked, “How are the boys?”

“They’re good,” she replied unconvincingly. “They… miss their father.”

“I miss them too.”

They both stared at the table before them, hands folded in on themselves when they had once reached instinctually toward the other.

After some time, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He said in a measured tone, “I’ve been seeing a therapist.”

Charlotte nodded, reluctant approval seeping through her stoic expression.”That’s good. I’m glad that you’ve decided to take that step.”

He felt like he was talking to a stranger. Then, a horrible pit in his stomach, he realized that was exactly how she had felt as he’d descended further into illness.

“Where are you staying these days?” she asked.

“With a friend.”

“That’s good.”

The background of their conversation was easy chatter, the clinking of utensils against plates, an array of smells that tantalize his hunger.

“Charlotte,” he whispered, loathing the way his fought back tears made the world shutter. He loved her so much. He loved her still as much as he ever had. She looked up at him, a great sadness overwhelming her features. “I miss you.”

“James,” she sighed, attempting to quell the speech she knew would be coming.

“Please,” he whimpered. “Please, just listen to me. Please.” When she didn’t interrupt him, he continued: “I know that I have a problem. I don’t expect you to- to live with a man you don’t recognize anymore. I know that everything has changed and I don’t know if it can ever go back but-”

He stopped to compose himself while one tear slid down his cheek. “But I’m trying. I really am. I- I joined a band. It helps me in ways I don’t think even I fully appreciate. They’re a good bunch of men, too.”

She considered this for a moment, the look of hesitant caution not wavering for even a moment. “Tell me about them,” she suggested.

He laughed, certain he would never stop being inspired by her curious nature. “Well, Watson- I mean, John,” he corrected himself, “John started it all. You’d like him, Lottie. He’s sharp and considerate. He’s passionate and sees the best in everyone.”

“Then there’s our singer,” he continued when he saw her lip twitch into the beginning of a smile. “He’s brilliant. There’s no other way to describe it. I’m telling you, darling, he is the brightest of us all.”

If she caught the slip of his term of affection, she had the good grace not to mention it. “A doctor, then?” she inquired.

“No, not that sort of brilliant,” he smirked. “He can… take one look at a person and just…  _ know _ everything about them. He tried to teach Greg- the bassist- but no one can do it like him.”

She looked sceptical at the claims, slowly saying, “That seems rather unlikely. Perhaps it’s a trick?”

“Would you like proof?”

“If you can provide it.”

“The first time he met me,” he said slowly, “Well, not just me- the whole band, he shook everyone’s hand as he was introduced to them all. But when John introduced me, you know what he did?”

“What?” Charlotte’s eyes were wide, her tone low and curious.

“He simply nodded politely. Then shook the next guy’s hand.”

It was a risky story to tell. It would remind her of his developed distaste for touching strangers, his arisen fear of physical contact.

Instead, she released a low, surprised, short-lived chortle. “You’re joking?”

“Not at all.”

“How’d he know?”

Sholto shrugged. His smile lacked the depth of joy is used to hold, but it was better on his face than the stoic expression he’d been wearing for so long. “You gotta see it to believe it. It really is incredible.”

“I’d like that.”

His insides were flipping inside-out, her slowly increasing warmth making him more nervous than her coldness had. After all, there was so much more at stake for him if the door of opportunity was opening slightly.

“You can come,” he said, voice soft and measured. “We perform all the time across town. In clubs. Maybe- Perhaps you could ask your sister to watch the boys and- you can come to watch us. And afterwards… Well, Sherlock loves to show off. You could meet him.”

She was silent for so long, Sholto was certain that she was not going to respond. He held his breath and prayed, prayed, prayed that she would say-

“That would be fun.”

He could have dry sobbed with relief. He couldn’t say a single word without exposing the breadth of his relief so instead, he nodded and offered a timid, thankful smile.

Slowly, carefully, uncertainly, she raised her right arm over the wood of their table and, hesitating for a second, laid her hand across the surface with her palm up toward him. He had nothing to consider: he reached his hand toward her and wrapped his hand around hers tenderly. It was a perfect fit, a touch so familiar, he could have been twenty years old again. When he finally looked up into her face, he saw three independent tears on her cheek.

“I miss you,” she whispered, rubbing her thumb along his.

He nodded, closing his eyes to the sensation. Then, looking into her vibrant, green eyes, he vowed: “I’m going to get better. I  _ am _ getting better. I will be better.”

He would get better for her, better for his sons, better for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Studies indicate that people with OCD frequently report stressful and traumatic life events before the illness begins." ([more info here](https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/178508.php))


	19. Cynical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobias isn't interested in sharing his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware: lots of swearing ahead.  
> Lots of anger.  
> Because Tobias is a salty bitch.

You wanna know the worst part of being a returned soldier?

Everyone wanted to know the “story.”

Everyone wanted to make sure that his story is tragic enough to warrant their sympathy.

Everyone wanted to fucking talk about it.

Had it ever occurred to a single civilian that maybe- just maybe- he didn’t  _ want _ to talk about the shittiest five years of his life? Had it ever occurred to  _ anyone _ that it was rude to stare in wonder at the scars that mutilated his face?

“Oh, Tobias is mean. Tobias is cranky. Tobias is jaded. Ignore Tobias, he’s just cynical.”

Fuck off. Go spend three years at a Japanese internment camp and then come talk to him about being cynical.

Once you’ve seen the worst in man, how do you adjust?

In many ways, the world saw Tobias a statistic- a number.

He was one out of 170,000 captured. He was one of roughly 60,000 British soldiers captured in the Pacific theatre. He was a portion of the 70% that survived the camp conditions.  His identification number had been 17652-A. His colour had been white.

He’d had it particularly bad. He was resilient. Headstrong. His punishments were cruel. The torture was unbearable. His famine was unthinkable.

So there. That was his story: he was a POW. Was that what everyone wanted to hear?

He tried not to think about it. He couldn’t bear to think about it.

But then another fucking person would think it was no problem at all to, unprompted, ask him questions like, “Where was your fight?”

What he wanted to say was: “Fuck off, my fight never ended.”

What he did say was: “Abroad.”

Spite tainted his every thought. His bitterness was a tangible force inside him, driving him closer and closer to the brink of his own sanity. 

For three years, his only thought- repeated over and over until it was both the only thing holding him upright as well as utter nonsense- was the phrase “ _ one more day. _ ”

That was one habit he still hadn't kicked after returning to civilian life.

* * *

Just about three months ago, Tobias has responded to a request to meet up with an old military connection because the telegram had mentioned potential monetary rewards. It had been Greg with some cockamamie scheme and Tobias, in a moment of uncharacteristic stupidity, agreed.

Which is how he ended up having to hear with his own two ears, the following exchange between two dumbasses:

“We should have choreography there,” Wiggins laughed, referencing Tobias' solo and using his drumsticks to imitate playing a trumpet

Greg, who found this particularly amusing, let out a roar of laughter, saying, “That’s not a bad idea. How about some  _ hornography _ , Tobias ?”

It was a good fucking thing Greg was one of the best bass players in the business because putting up with him was a damned endurance test.

“I’m going to punch you in the face if you  _ ever  _ say that to me ever again.”

He’d meant it as a threat, but Greg responded with a louder laugh than ever.

Rehearsals were always like this. To be fair, rehearsals were far less frequent as of late now that their schedule was flooded with actual performances. That arrangement meant much less tomfoolery and much more actual music.

What was it that John had said to convince him to join all those months ago? “We all need this”? Tobias couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be sentimental enough to fall for that shit. Out of all the things he needed in life, he did not need  _ hornography _ .

Luckily, it was a short rehearsal. Following John’s rambling reminders about their next performance (which, for the record, they’d heard the first time), Tobias slipped out with haste to avoid the necessity of small talk.

Once outside, he breathed in the air, crisp and necessary in his tension-tightened lungs. It filled him, soothed him. How many months had he survived in dank, thick air? Air that smelled so strongly of human sweat and waste, it could be tasted on his tongue? In his professional opinion, not nearly enough people fully appreciated the great outdoors.

The marching footsteps approaching from behind him were recognizable by sound alone, the mechanical thumps drawing him from his reverie.

“What took you so long?” he asked, not turning around.

“My apologies,” Sholto’s low voice came from just behind him. “The latch on my case- it… wouldn’t close.”

It was a thinly veiled excuse and they both knew it. He’d obviously gotten caught up with closing it repeatedly. It didn’t happen terribly often, but it happened often enough for Tobias to instinctually know the truth. It wasn’t worth bringing up, though. After two months of living with Sholto, he’d learned how to pick his battles.

* * *

Tobias had met Sholto back when he was a captain when they’d been stationed on a base together. At that point, Tobias hadn’t yet met Greg. (Oh, what beautiful days those must have been. He should have appreciated the quiet more.) Their time together had been brief, but they bonded over their love for music and their many shared annoyances. They were both stubborn, but Sholto was full of life while Tobias, even then, spent most of his time rolling his eyes.

Even back then, Sholto had been a bit funny; he was always fixing his pens and losing control of himself if he didn’t open a letter  _ just _ right. But God, if Tobias had known then what a weird man he would become, he probably would have intervened.

He never thought that he would see Sholto again when he got re-stationed to the Pacific theatre.

Though, in fairness, he never thought he would see anyone again.

Who would have thought that he would end up in a band with him five years later? Who would have thought he would end up having him as a flatmate, arguing with him over how many times was necessary to check the stove?

No one. That’s who.

Sholto's wife kicked him out after his disease had become too much for their children. Tobias offered to take him in. Sholto had been sceptical, saying: “I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking,” he said plainly. “Neither am I, actually. You’re not going to live on the street; you’re going to stay with me. That’s an order.”

Which is how, two months later in mid-February 1946, he found himself in the doorway of his study, calmly saying: “Don’t do it.”

Sholto stopped where he stood, turning to face Tobias while one arm remained extended toward an askew book. He hesitantly let his arm drop, his anxiety simmering beneath a poor attempt at remaining calm. “And why not?”

“My books. My way.” Tobias shrugged, leaning against the wall and watching Sholto’s fingers flex in on themselves with terrifying strength.

“Perhaps...  _ you _ could fix it?” he suggested with a forced-casual air.

“Nope.”

Frozen where he stood, he watched the gears in Sholto’s head rebel against one another.

_ Don’t do it _ , he told himself.  _ Don’t. Help. Him. _

But then Sholto’s eyes flitted to the disorganized books for the seventh time and his self-control gave way to weakness.

_ Damn it. _

“Listen, Major,” Tobias sighed. “You know what the doctor said, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

Sholto looked at Tobias as though  _ he _ was the one to have come up with the ridiculous mantra. Through tight teeth, he chorused: “It’s okay for things to not be okay.”

“That’s right. Now get away from the books,” Tobias ordered.

It took three, tension-filled seconds before he finally dropped his arm from the shelf, relaxing a bit as he turned away from the offending book.

He… did it.

An unfamiliar feeling bloomed in his chest, arising ferociously, its intensity dizzying him. It was similar to joy- perhaps satisfaction?- but it was a result of someone else’s actions. It was so strong, in fact, that by the time he realized he was smiling, it was too late to pretend he hadn’t.

Wiping away the smile as quickly as he could, he cleared his throat and, turning away, called back, “I’m proud of you.”

He was three steps down the hallway when Sholto could finally stammer out a response that was dripping in astonished confusion. “What did you say?”

“You’ve got ears,” he called, annoyed at his own weakness. “There will be hell to pay if you fix that book later.”

Two months ago, that would have been an ordeal. It took him all this time to realize that Sholto was, against all odds, improving.

... Not that he cared.

* * *

“What is this?” asked Sholto from across the room.

Lowering his book to look toward the source of the question, he saw Sholto standing upright in the open doorway of his study, holding a folded piece of sturdy paper. It was a pamphlet advertising a support group for veterans struggling with alcohol addiction. He'd grabbed it from the doctor's office earlier while he waited for Sholto's session to come to an end. It had, of course, been foolish to leave in on the counter where Sholto could find it, but hindsight was 20/20.

“You can read, can’t you?” he snapped too quickly. He buried his face in his book once more, praying to a God he didn’t believe in that Sholto would leave.

He tried focusing on the sentence he left off on:  _ As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the foolscap _ .

There were no retreating footsteps, however. Instead, he heard the paper flip open and closed rapidly. Sholto was investigating for information within the pamphlet that Tobias wouldn’t give him willingly. His palpable curiosity caused Tobias to absorb absolutely no portion of the sentence. 

“You don’t drink, though... Do you?” Sholto asked, unsure.

“Of course not. The stuff’s poison.”

_ As we left the room, we heard his- _

“Then why did you take this?”

The portion of Tobias that was always ready to fight at the drop of a pin growled, poised to lash out. He lowered his book enough to glare toward Sholto. “Because,” he said slowly, willing himself not to take his temper out on his flatmate, “I’m not the only veteran out there, am I?”

When this appeared to appease Sholto, Tobias slowly raised the book once more to block the man out.  _ As we left the room- _

“Tobias.”

“Oh my fucking God,” he said, slamming the book shut and regretting it instantly when he realized he hadn’t used a bookmark. He looked up at Sholto expectantly, his eyebrows raised and anger simmering. “What? What do you want?”

Against all reason, Sholto was smiling. It was a cautious, intrigued, and accusatory smile. He held up the pamphlet so the title flashed toward his seat, but Tobias refused to look at it.

“Did you,” he started, words crawling and tone rhetorical, “get this for Gregory?”

God damn it.

Yes, of course he did. The man drank like a fish and was so deep in denial, he was a menace to himself. He understood why Greg drank- he really, truly did. In fact, Tobias would likely be far more likeable as a relaxed lush than as the sober asshole he was. Tobias understood far too well that the sorrow that never left him alone would fade away- even if only slightly- with a bit of liquor. There was a reason he never drank; the likelihood of him stopping once he started was infinitesimal. Tobias sympathized with Greg’s desperation completely. Tobias understood. 

But a life lost to the stuff was worse.

So yeah. He’d thought maybe Greg could use the help.

... Not that he cared.

“Yeah, so what if I did?” Tobias grumbled, fingers toying with the frayed pages in his lap.

Sholto shrugged, finally allowing the pamphlet to fall against his thigh. “Just curious.”

He turned around on his heels and made his way back to the kitchen, his steps rhythmic in the otherwise silent house. Tobias shuddered, hoping beyond hope that Sholto wasn’t going to read into-

“I’m proud of you.” Sholto’s voice resounded from the kitchen, voice ringing with equal portions sincerity and teasing.

“Piss  off ,” he yelled, opening his book to a random place- he didn’t even care where he’d been- and reading the incomprehensible words bitterly.

* * *

Once you’ve seen the worst in man, how do you adjust?

Apparently, you need to join a band.

He was a fucking idiot for having taken so long to see it.

Normally, his thoughts ran rampant within him, phantom scars alerting him to a constant pain. But when he played with those six other veterans, insufferable as they were, he saw six other men who were fighting the same fight as him. Six men who did not ask him about the war because they understood. Six men who didn’t stare at the mangled skin upon his face. It was the same bond he shared with his brothers in arms and then his fellow prisoners of war. There’s a bond that forms in the fight against a common enemy that cannot be resisted. And in that bond, he found relief and- dare he say it- peace.

So there. He didn’t care about the guys; he cared about how they made his own life easier. They brought a glimmer of hope to his otherwise desolate attitude.

That was better, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LIAR, he loves them all. (But don't make him say it.)  
> Bonus points to anybody who knows and comments regarding what book Tobias was reading. ;)  
> (or rather... where I got the sentence that he was reading. Because of course, he wasn't reading the real book.)
> 
> These drastic style changes every day are giving me whiplash.
> 
> One more! But we're out of band members! Who will it be the featured POV for our last day? You're all bright, I'm sure you have a hunch.


	20. Brother Dearest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft had warned his brother about the dangers of affection.  
> Why couldn't he have listened to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of you correctly guessed the subject of this one. Congratulations! :)  
> Slight warning for descriptions of blood and injuries.

**16 September 1944**

This wouldn’t have been a problem if Sherlock had simply listened to him.

There was no danger more imminent than one’s feelings. He had warned him against the whole ordeal.

Why didn’t Sherlock listen to him?

The stench in the makeshift tent was gnarly, every single living body rushing with frantic, untamable energy. The only bodies to remain still were the dead and Mycroft Holmes.

He put his weight on the cane, held on tightly with both hands in front of him, and simply stared, unblinking, at the still form of the late Victor Trevor. He was surprised to find that he was… sad. That was unexpected, in truth. He didn't dabble frequently in the business of sorrow- or affection in general. It was a terribly wasteful thing to spend a lifetime focused on. Still, Victor had made Sherlock happier than could possibly be decent. Victor had been a good friend and husband to his brother. But more than that, Victor had been a good man. Mycroft could admit that much, at least.

The world would be worse off for his absence.

No. None of that nonsense. Mourning would do no good in the next steps that faced him. He needed to jump into action; he would need to ensure that the news would impact Sherlock as little as possible. He needed to control the situation.

Still, he remained motionless, staring at a man that should have been too young to pass on.

Victor looked incredibly small in death. He laid on his back, his hair was unruly, matted to his forehead in a mixture of blood, skin, and dirt. Where his skin wasn't blown off completely, it was caked in a revolting mixture.  His hands were limp, folding in on themselves. One was hanging off the poorly constructed cot while the other laid on his stomach. His eyes were open and only by looking through his inanimate eyes did Mycroft truly understand and appreciate how much life they’d held before. While the sounds of a dying battle raged outside, Victor's chest was eerily still.

What were his dying thoughts? His last words? Were they of Sherlock?

Sherlock was going to despise him. He would never fully understand. He could, of course, explain to Sherlock the truth. Though in doing so, Mycroft would be acting against Victor's direct request. It was, admittedly, much more difficult to disregard the wishes of a dead man that lay before him.

So Sherlock would blame Mycroft. It was certain. Sherlock already resented him for so much, after all. He would cling to his grief and resentment until it poisoned him thoroughly. His emotional, impulsive brother would never grasp what it was to have a duty more important than personal desire.

Mycroft was not without his humanity, despite the official party line that he maintained. When he discovered the war was coming, he took the appropriate measures to protect both his brother _and_ his brother-in-law. Their total protection from the impact of the upcoming war was secured in less than ten minutes. It'd been the easiest security measure to enact.

It was a gloomy, dreadful, chaotic day when his assistant informed him that Victor as awaiting a private meeting with him. Mycroft was as startled as he could be, a fairly difficult feat to accomplish.

Closing the door to secure privacy, Victor had wasted no time in getting to his point. He was poised, professional, and yet the current of dedicated passion that ran beneath his still exterior was as evident as any physical trait could be. He refused to sit, favouring to stand as he immediately said, "Can I correctly assume you've taken certain measures to assure Sherlock doesn't get drafted?"

"Yes, of course," Mycroft responded.

"And what of myself?"

"You needn't worry," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "You're protected to the same extent."

He had expected an expression of relief to flood his face, a rush of irritating thankfulness to spew from his mouth. Yet he did neither of those things; rather, his lips went pale with pressure, a mix of displeasure and determination solidifying on his pale skin.

"I would like you to remove that protection."

Without missing a beat, Mycroft brushed the suggestion aside. The war would be long- brutal. He wouldn't hear of it.

“Please,” whispered Victor in response to his declinations. “I understand the danger. But… my grandfather is Jewish. My mom is, too. My country is at war. I can't… stay here and do nothing. I'm not built for it- being useless. I'll go mad.”

"Then we will find you work in the intelligence-"

"No," Victor interrupted, his resolve steady. "I want to fight." 

He'd studied Victor from his brow to his toes and saw nothing of a lie upon him. He shouldn't have underestimated Victor. They'd known one another since Victor was eight and Mycroft was thirteen. Yet Mycroft nearly always underestimated him, perhaps because he still saw Victor as the same young, friendly child who looked upon Sherlock like he were the entire universe of brilliance rolled into one little boy while Mycroft had known that Sherlock was a proper idiot. "And what does Sherlock think of your hard-headed patriotism?” Mycroft had asked.

“He doesn't know. I love him more dearly than any combination of infinite words could express. To leave him for the war will be the most terrible and trying task of my life. I will miss him every moment until I return. But I'm watching every man around me get shipped off to war. Where is their brother-in-law to protect them? I can't live knowing that I did nothing while my relatives, classmates, coworkers all pay the ultimate sacrifice. But... there will be no convincing Sherlock. You know that. He'll be furious with me if I go voluntarily and if something happens… he'll be furious with me for my choice the rest of his life. It has to look like I was drafted- like I had no choice.”

“So you would rather he live out his days angry with me, instead. To have him think I sat idly by while you were shipped off into battle.”

Victor said nothing for a long time. He maintained his eye contact with Mycroft, barely moving.

“Yes,” he said, not an ounce of shame in the admission.

After careful deliberation, Mycroft had obliged his request with the all-too-important stipulation that neither of them was allowed to tell Sherlock. He forged a draft letter and pretended his hands were tied.

Then he kept a  _very_ close eye on him as he made his way through the Solomon Islands. Close enough to be present as they brought in his body fourteen minutes ago.

But now Victor was dead and perhaps Mycroft should blame himself for having obliged Victor's ridiculous, fatal request.

“ _Move!_ ” bellowed a voice from the entrance to the tent. It was loud enough, frantic enough to break Mycroft's concentration. He moved for the first time since they laid his body down and turned to see a short, filthy soldier running from bed to bed, his eyes wild with terror. Although his hair was covered with grime, Mycroft could see blond beneath.

But it was what he called next that truly captured his attention: “VICTOR!"

The two-syllable syllable word was a wall of grief in his throat, the despair and desperation ringing through the air. It was as much a scream as a question, a cry that would never receive an answering response.

The man ran closer and closer, looking crazed as he flitted from bed to bed in search of Victor until he was close enough to Mycroft for him to see his still-fresh battle scars. There was a significant gash on his left arm that was clearly the damage of a rock- most likely from a fall he took. The fog of war was still over him, his mind not yet realizing that it should be processing any pain from his multitude of broken skin. His name tag and rank were smeared with mud and were difficult to make out, but based on the visible evidence, he reasoned them both and called over the din of the tent:

“Captain Watson.”

The man- Watson- turned toward the sound of his name and immediately sprinted over to where Mycroft stood. Less than two seconds after, however, he turned his head to the isolated bed behind Mycroft and whatever words he had been planning to direct toward Mycroft were stopped in his throat. Instead, any semblance of words left him and, tripping over himself on his way to the deceased, he released a primitive wail of loss.

Before he could reach Victor, Mycroft threw out an arm to halt his progress. He’d expected him to stop, perhaps to be surprised that he was being stopped from seeing his friend. To his own astonishment, however, the man simply continued to push against Mycroft’s protective arm as though it were nothing at all.

“Please,” he choked, his voice sticky and eyes flooding with waves of tears. “Please, he’s my friend. Please, I need to see him- he was- he was my friend.”

In his entire life, Mycroft had never seen such raw, feral, unabashed humanity. Never before had he seen loss wrack a body until there was no reason, no thought, no glimpse of joy at all, his body and mind instead succumbing to unrestrained sorrow.

He dropped his arm without a word and Watson fell over the unmoving body, back arching repeatedly with silent, encasing sobs.

Mycroft was not an expert in emotional displays. He was an expert in reading people. He could read motive in behaviour, locational history in stains, and thought processes in bodily motion.

In the same way, he could read Captain Watson.

* * *

**Present Day**

This wouldn’t have been a problem if Sherlock had simply listened to him.

There was no danger more imminent than one’s feelings. He had warned him against the whole ordeal.

Why didn’t Sherlock listen to him?

Didn’t he learn his lesson the first time? Wasn’t the loss of one love enough to scare him off of it entirely?

 _Oh, Sherlock_ , he thought, watching their performance from his seat in the back of the club. _I did warn you against attachments_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the clock counts down on our many mysteries here, **please refrain from sharing your theories in the comments.** Thank you. :)
> 
> That's a wrap, folks. 16,150 words in seven days. Where's my medal?!  
> No, but seriously: I have the greatest readers that exist on this planet. Thank you all SO much for your support and kindness. I deeply appreciate every single one of you more than you can ever know. <3


	21. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has John been up to since the preliminary?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, folks! We're back. Sorry for the three-week gap, I made the mistake of starting another WIP and so my focus was split a bit.  
> As some of you may have picked up on, the last seven chapters also saw us moving forward in time. Al's chapter (the first of the seven) was in late December 1945 and Mycroft's (the last) was in late February 1946.  
> Now it's time to see what John was up to during that time. We'll be skipping ahead through the chapter and let's see if you can catch the timestamp references from the other chapters. :)  
> (Reminder: Sherlock's flat is not 221B. That's in London, folks. ;) )

**Late December 1945 and January 1946**

When John first returned home from the war, he’d travelled to every single jazz club in the city in an attempt to find even  _ one _ gig. Once the band was put together, only Al would grant them a once-a-week spot at The Crescent. Their plan to take every available gig in an effort to save enough to pay their own way to the finals, concocted in the haze following the competition, had been a pipe dream.

Yet somehow- impossibly- there was a large influx of demand for their modest talents. First, Mel from The Wallace called and asked for them to sing a weekly spot with a spectacular rate. Admittedly, he hadn’t seemed happy with his own words, but the offer was sincere. After that, he heard from Margret who ran Sepia, a largely female bar across town on the corner of 97th Avenue and Welling Way. Since the competition, they seemed to be getting every gig available in town.

It was beyond his wildest hope, in truth. The whole of them seemed in a better mood at their positive prospects. If this continued, they actually might stand a chance of making it to London for the finals.

The New Year snuck up on all of them, save Sherlock who hosted a small celebration in his flat. The soldiers shared a bitter yet satirical toast “to the worst year of their lives” regarding the end of 1945, which had actually only been  _ one _ of the worst years of their lives. Sherlock, meanwhile, had toasted to “new beginnings.” In the tense silence that followed that hopeful toast, John supposed there were some ways he bonded more intimately to his fellow soldiers than he did Sherlock.

The lot of them, as always, caused trouble that night. Tobias had almost punched a wall in Sherlock’s wall after Greg had taunted him with a bit of mistletoe and missed Greg’s darting frame, hitting the wall instead. Mrs. Hudson, in turn, reprimanded an uncharacteristically sheepish Tobias about the near-damage to her wall while the rest of them held in raucous laughter. Tobias spent the rest of the night in a brooding silence next to Sholto, passive-aggressively knocking Sholto’s cup askew when he wasn’t looking. John thought this was rather cruel, but he swore he saw Sholto smile a bit when he caught him doing it.

Wiggins mostly sat down on a worn red chair, observing the rest of them and laughing at their antics. Though, once, he did pick up one of Sherlock’s books (“Practical Mathematics” by Walter N. Hynes) and read it with interest. John wondered how much of it Wiggins could understand.

Greg became the god of mischief himself, wreaking havoc on all of them in short spurts (Sherlock truly did not appreciate how Greg kept messing up his hair) and blaming it on the champagne that Sherlock had imported from France for the occasion. 

It had been a wonderful night full of drunk, ungodly music, laughter that shook the floor, and evidence of truly unshakable brotherhood.

As the weeks continued to roll by, the band continued to grow closer and he and Sherlock had taken to spending a significant amount of time together.  John wasn’t sure when they’d stopped making excuses to retire together in Sherlock’s living space after performances and rehearsals and just started assuming the arrangement. One day, they’d been clumsily agreeing that John should stop by to borrow that book that Sherlock had told him about. The next day, they fell into step together toward Sherlock’s place after their performance without discussion of the direction of their journey. Their private times together were always spent occupying Sherlock’s flat, an unspoken agreement that favoured both of their preferences. John, desperate to spend as little time as possible away from his desolated, empty flat, was content to spend increasing amounts of time in Sherlock’s, who much preferred to spend time in a location he was comfortable with.

They still spent time together in public from time to time, but after a rather humiliating interaction with Greg and Sherlock, John was content to give it up altogether. 

John hesitated to admit that his strengthened bond with Sherlock surpassed in greatness the increased number of gigs, but he knew, deep down, that he was never happier than when he sat across from Sherlock in that expertly decorated flat of his, laughing at anything and everything and talking about everything from the worst wines available (sherry, according to Sherlock, was “ _ not  _ wine”) to the grandest musicians of their time (Frank Sinatra, John insisted to fits of giggles from Sherlock, was “garbage”).

John would happily forfeit any hope of a romantic future with him if it meant he could have him as an eternal friend.

His landlady was quite a character. A sweet, anxious, and shockingly sharp woman, he found he quite liked her (in moderation, of course). She bustled about to care for Sherlock and in return, John watched Sherlock with amusement as he visibly fought back a desire to lose his patience.

That was another trait of Sherlock that he’d only recently begun to fully appreciate: Sherlock was, deep down, a proper arsehole. He knew this because John, too, was a proper arsehole deep down and whenever John felt himself losing patience, he would look and see a mirrored irritation in the thinness of Sherlock’s lips, in the lifeless stare of his eyes, and the tension of his shoulders. Yet, for whatever reason, he maintained silence every time. John wondered if Sherlock absorbed some of Victor’s kindness, patience, and consideration and had it within him still.

In the daylight, their conversations ran the gamut. Sometimes they talked about art, literature, philosophy, and the ilk. John didn’t know a lot about this subject (uni and the war had kept him away from indulgences such as museums) but Sherlock loved to discuss his favourite artists of each era (Renaissance was his favourite, which he admitted sheepishly) and which philosophers were “most full of shit.” John had never thought he’d care about any of it, but apparently, the subject caught his attention when taught by a handsome, rich-voiced man. Other times, they would find themselves in spirited debates about which fields of work were respectable. Sherlock insisted that medical training was utterly useless since he knew everything there was to know about the human body without any official training. John sarcastically responded that, by that logic, all education would be useless. Sherlock, in a flurry of thrill, proclaimed that John finally understood. They’d quarrelled for hours but ended the night in a fit of laughter. Other times still, it would be neither of those and they wouldn’t speak at all, but simply sit in silence, thinking or reading to share one another’s company.

When the sun would set and permit their conversations a blanket of darkness, sometimes their defences would slip a centimetre or so. In those moments, the conversation would turn to intimate truths: hopes, dreams, fears, and the ilk.

One such time, following an off-handed comment from Sherlock that “Victor used to clean the stove”, John felt his heart drop and a mutual silence fell between them. They seemed to understand one another, the moonlight failing to illuminate the true mourning that they both wore on their faces. But into the silence, Sherlock croaked out, “I- I miss him.”

“I know,” John said on a breath, the words barely escaping due to the pain they caused. “I do too.”

Another time, on an overcast night, John did a particularly good impression of Greg, to which they both laughed with mirth and, in the dying embers of their laughter, Sherlock said, “We all owe you so much.”

Grateful that the darkness could cover the rising colour in his cheeks, John assured him, “No, I didn’t do anything-”

“No,” Sherlock insisted, loud enough to cut John’s words short in his throat. “You have no idea what you’ve saved the lot of them from- what you saved all of us from.”

At that moment, it took everything he had to prevent himself from reaching out to grasp his friend’s hand.

On another, quite recent evening, as only a few stubborn sunrays continued to shine, John was talking at length about his journey with piano. In response, Sherlock confessed that he’d always wished he was better skilled at the piano. “I’m, of course, content with my decision to pick up the violin. It is possibly the most effective tool at my disposal to help with overactive thoughts. Still, piano skills could be damned helpful.”

John blinked at him, uncertain whether Sherlock was telling a rather bland, stupid joke. When his eyes simply stared out the window with an evident longing and not sparkling with hints of a joke, John proposed, “You’re serious? You know I could teach you, right?”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, flushing a colour to be seen even in the dimming light. “I wasn’t asking-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can help you.” He looked at Sherlock, one corner of his mouth trying rather hard not to crack into a smile.

“Is that a sincere offer?”

Ah, damn it to hell. John let himself smile and, stomach alight with butterflies, said, “Of course. Come over any time.”

The performances were piling up, however, and exhaustion was rampant. So they agreed to start lessons in February to avoid conflict with any of their many established performances in late-January. And since the piano was at John’s flat, he wanted to avoid going after a rehearsal or performance when he would need to turn on lights and run up his bill, which he could already barely afford.

After one of their performances at Al’s, John was summoned to take a phone call that had come through the club. When he’d returned with the wonderful news that it was yet another offer for their services, Greg responded with a yawn, saying, “You’re going to wear us down, Johnny.”

“It’s fifty pounds for a one-hour performance.” John wanted to groan for the whining that was starting to emerge more frequently from the lot of them. “That’s more than worth a bit of exhaustion.”

“Easy for you to say. It’s not like you get any sleep anyway,” Philip teased with a smile and a nudge to his ribs.

John rolled his eyes and flashed him an exasperated smile. “Piss off,” he said, unable to hold back a bubble of laughter. Was his insomnia really so obvious that even Philip could read it? “What does that bring our total to anyway, Philip?” he asked to change the subject.

“Uh-” Philip said, face blank of any thought.

“Nine hundred fifty-seven pounds and five shillings.”

Every head turned in equal shock to Wiggins, whose voice had rung out with a clarity that appalled the lot of them. Even Sherlock, who seemed to know Wiggins best, looked mildly impressed.

After struggling to regain his composure, John asked with a hoarse voice, “Bloody hell, mate. How’d you do that?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted with a soft smile and eyes that appeared to be, in that moment, just slightly brighter.

* * *

**February 1946**

_ This  _ was a mistake.

He shouldn’t have done this.

What was he  _ thinking _ ?

Teaching Sherlock how to play the piano, a task he’d been quite excited for, was like living through a dream turned nightmare.

“Like this?” Sherlock asked, fingers arched cautiously over a series of keys.

John sat alongside him on the wobbly, chipped wooden bench before his grand piano. The sun outside their window was setting, the already overcast sky leaving the pair of them in near darkness inside John’s flat. This impending darkness was why they'd started the lesson so early, and John was made harshly aware of how long they'd been sitting here together. In the dim light of the few flickering flames John had lit and the last straggling rays of sunlight, Sherlock’s dark outline was sitting beside him with magnificent posture, his slender build tipping ever so slightly toward John when he needed to adjust the form of his right hand. Sherlock’s limbs appeared to go for miles, his legs cramped beneath the piano that fit John’s legs perfectly.

“Er- yeah,” he said, forcing his eyes off of him. “Yeah, that’s perfect. Want to give it another go, then?”

Sherlock proceeded to play a nearly flawless A scale, his hands moving in conjunction with one another up and down the keys. John should have been proud of his immaculate talent, his showcase of immense improvement. Instead, his mind was drowning in the scent of him. He smelled of bergamot with undercurrents of fresh cypress that blended into a sweet, woodsy scent that was driving John slowly wild. Through the electric air between them, John suddenly wished he’d decided to coach from afar. What rational reason was there to sit beside him, their elbows knocking together with John close enough to prevent his mind its longings. 

On his weakest days, when he lacked the strength to resist the temptation, he would permit himself to pretend for only the briefest of moments. He would pretend that his circumstances were different. He would pretend that he and Sherlock had even the smallest chance of being together. He would allow himself- for mere seconds- to feel the overwhelming love he held to rush forward in its full truth.

They were dangerous moments. He knew this. But he was weak and he couldn’t find a single reason to keep fighting.

“Good,” he whispered, shaking fingers betraying him. They lifted toward Sherlock’s and he would certainly deduce their meaning. “So those are your notes for the key of A major, or, of course, F# minor. But your pinky is dragging at the end there.” Slowly, slowly, he slid one finger along the bottom of his pinky, pushing it up with the softest of pressure, the gentlest of motions. The touch was innocent and innocuous, insidious and iniquitous all at once. “Keep it lifted after you use it.”

To pull his hand away took a strength he barely possessed. He looked up and saw Sherlock using the very corners of his eyes to look back at John. His face was soft, his demeanour relaxed. A bundle of curls fell across his forehead as his head was bent over the keys. He imagined pushing away those curls; had to fight his hand from doing so. He imagined leaning in, placing a string of air-light kisses beneath his ear and down his trapezius. He imagined placing one still-shaking hand on his back and allowing it to crawl along the expanse of wool covering his silky skin. He imagined Sherlock’s parted lips as kissing him, his eyes falling shut in surrender to the touch he, too, had been wanting-

“Right,” breathed Sherlock when he finally looked away, ripping John cruelly from his unruly imagination. Sherlock, too, appeared flushed and John realized his own transparency with a mix of horror and shame.

“But other than that,” John said too loudly, rising from the bench with a speed that rocked it back a bit, “just about perfect.”

John left the room with vague excuses about tea (which he never made) and tried not to notice how Sherlock’s eyes avoided his own.

* * *

Sherlock.

Sherlock  _ Holmes _ .

The name, in and of itself, was music floating like dust on the air around John.

He knew he could never, in any lifetime, be with him. But he could dream- and dream he did. Until, at least, Sherlock would bring  _ him _ up again. The mention of his deceased husband had the reliable ability to shut down every single romantic hope and millilitre of joy that existed inside John.

“Vic used to hate it when I made these,” he said wistfully, scraping eggs onto two plates. John had assured him that eggs were a breakfast food and Sherlock had responded that time didn’t exist and food can be eaten at any time. (Plus,” Sherlock had added, “It’s all I have and you need to eat.”)

Far from changing the subject, John forced himself to ask through tight teeth, “Why’s that?”

“The smell,” Sherlock said, taking a huge bite of his perfectly fried egg. “He used to dread the smell and the way it lingered for hours.”

“And you don’t mind the smell?”

“I made no such claim,” he said dramatically. “I do, however, know that eggs, when made correctly, are worth any smells that may occur.” John smiled. “Vic disagreed, however.” John’s smile dropped.

But save for those few times when John couldn’t escape Victor’s shadow, his bond with Sherlock was the greatest portion of his life. John could not explain it, couldn't reason why two such drastically different men would find solace and companionship in one another. What he did know is that life was not quite so difficult with him in his life. He couldn’t be with him but if only to spend eternity near him- perhaps that would be enough. 

In the nearly 90 days since John met Sherlock, his guilt had not faded one iota. It still haunted him in the form of an inability to sleep. His guilt was twofold for having to hide the truth from Sherlock as well. He was, however, finding it easier and easier to cope with the guilt; to hide from it.

Perhaps he could live with himself, his insomnia, and his secret for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock... I O U a fall.
> 
> The next chapter is Sherlock's experience during the same time frame and is completely written but requires heavy editing. Gimme a few days and it'll be up. :)


	22. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has Sherlock been up to since the preliminary?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that embarrassing encounter with Greg that John mentioned?  
> Read on, friends. :)

**Late December 1945**

“Sherlock, dear!” called Mrs. Hudson from the flat beside his own. In the quiet, dark winter afternoon, her words seemed magnified, pulling him his reverie that had been only a bit too pleasant. Sherlock scowled at the interruption, repressing the overwhelming urge to release a biting retort.

“Yes?” he called in response, his words only bearing hints of their true displeasure.

“You’ve got a client coming by-”

“What did I tell you,” he interrupted, patience thinning, “about new clients.”

At this, he heard her huff with an impatience to match his own and her feet shuffled at a speed above her average gait until she was in the doorway, directing an irritated look where he lay sprawled across the worn couch.

“I  _ know _ what you said,” she said. “But do  _ you _ know what  _ I _ was going to say?”

Sherlock stared at her, head raised and eyes narrowed, for a long moment, debating whether to answer according to his wit or his humanity. He settled reluctantly for the latter. “Fine,” he sighed, laying his head back down and examining the patterns on the ceiling. “What is it?”

“You’ve got a client who keeps popping by when you’re gone,” she continued. “I told him that you’re busy for the next few months and won’t be accepting new clients, but he insists you’ll want it.”

“Changes nothing.” His words were clipped, uncaring. He did not require cases now that there existed another fascinating distraction for him. When this band reached the end of its rope, perhaps then-

“I know,” she said again, crossing the room now toward the coffee table. “I told him. He agreed to stop dropping by on the stipulation that I give you his letter.”

Not caring to give said letter even a cursory glance, he continued to examine the dull patterns on the ceiling. He released a short “Mm” and heard the soft landing of the letter on a pile of other unopened letter addressed to him. 

“What should I say to him if he returns?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she exited his personal domain.

“Tell him his case is boring, predictable and of no interest to me.”

“If you say so, dear.”

She left with a soft click of the lock behind her and Sherlock was free to resume his thoughts. In less than two hours, he would be seeing John again- seeing the band again, that is. He would be singing, laughing, and living. He dwindled the time away within the confines of his mind palace, playing out fantasies he could barely admit to himself that he desired.

Tonight was particularly exciting, leading the clock to move particularly slowly. Greg, whom Sherlock liked reluctantly despite his generally loud, callous behaviour, had asked Sherlock how he was able to deduce so much from so little. Sherlock, in turn, had offered to teach Greg some basic on the matter following the conclusion of tonight’s performance.

John would surely join them.

Even on the darkest of days, there could still be found a light in the form of John Watson. Even though he knew John to be hiding something from him, there was a pull toward him that Sherlock could not identify nor resist. It was not a pull that originated from similarities, certainly. The two were as different as the sun and the moon, as water and air. Still, did there exist a more significant pull in the universe? He felt himself a magnet, helpless but to draw nearer to what it, by law, must draw near.

When the time finally came, Sherlock rose from the couch and spent (arguably) too long in front of the mirror, fixing his hair to achieve maximum potential. When he was sufficiently comfortable with his own appearance, he trotted down the stairs, calling to Mrs. Hudson that he would be home late.

The streets were frigid and unforgiving, but Sherlock could barely be bothered. He hadn’t seen John- or the others- in three days and it was enough to drive him mad. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d grown so accustomed to his face.

When he arrived at The Wallace- a dingy hole-in-the-wall club with a vile owner who was only too willing to pay them handsomely- the air was thick in his lungs from the plethora of smoking patrons. He relished the sensation, feeling the beginnings of an itch for the stuff blooming deep within him.

Shaking his head of the thought, he made a bee-line directly to where he knew the band to be preparing for performance behind the scenes. There was a casual assortment of hellos when he walked in and Sherlock, attempting to remain cool, tried not to look disappointed when he saw that John was not a part of their number yet. He thought bitterly that he could have spent more time preening himself.

John did, of course, show up within the next few minutes, spewing excuses of oversleeping that Sherlock knew to be a lie. John didn’t sleep. John  _ never  _ slept- a fact that haunted Sherlock endlessly. His distraction tactics should have worked and John’s overall improved mood should have helped at least a bit as well. After all, Greg’s sleep schedule had improved tenfold since Sherlock had first met him. Why not John? No, John did not oversleep. There was sweat glinting along his hairline and mud splatters across the cuffs of his brand new trousers. Based on John’s flat’s location and a tear in one of the threads upon a new, loose button up shirt, John was late because he’d accidentally taken the route here that involved a temporarily-closed road and been unable to find an acceptable detour. He’d clearly tried to cut through an alleyway to make up for lost time, down which he’d snagged his shirt on the rough wall and treaded over thick, unruly mud.

Despite John’s tardiness, they went on to perform a beautiful set, the only hiccup arriving when Greg made the mistake of providing an admittedly charming smile to Philip when he was in the middle of a nearly perfect saxophone solo. Upon meeting his eyes, Philip’s fingers slid away from their appropriate position and the mistake was glaring. It went largely unnoticed, but Tobias was unpleased with the fumble.

It was near the end of the set when John finally had his turn to show off his skill on the black and white keys. Half-way through the complex solo, John motioned him over to join him and he knew, without words, what to do. To the astonishment of the audience, Sherlock began to scat expertly around John’s melody, their eyes locked in contact the entire time as John modulated the key not once, not twice, but thrice. Each time, Sherlock slid up or down to meet him, their music mingling as though it were planned and practised for months.

But he needed no practice with John. He knew his motions, he knew the shifts of his eyebrows, he knew his intentions. Not as Sherlock knew everyone’s intentions, but in a way that was entirely new. This connection he had with John was not mere familiarity nor intuition, but some combination of the two that cumulated in unadulterated unity.

Their piano/scat combo got the largest applause of the night.

As all good things must come to an end, so did their performance. Sherlock didn’t mind, however, because no sooner had they stepped off stage when he felt John’s hand upon his elbow from behind him. It was a gesture to garner attention, but Sherlock was hyper-aware of his fingers through his shirt sleeve as John looked up at him and proposed, “Drink?”

And so they headed toward a quiet corner of the place, unconsciously skipping the bar entirely, where there was a high-top, rounded table with two seats, though certainly room for a third. Sherlock’s mind was distantly on Greg, who would certainly find the two in no time. After all, where else would Greg turn after a show if not the in-house bar?

“That was some truly remarkable scatting,” John noted as he settled into the seat across from Sherlock. His face was coloured red from the poor lights in the warm-coloured room.

“If I was remarkable, it is not from my own talent,” Sherlock said to the table, finding John’s praise a hard task to accept while looking into those eyes. “Your skill guided me-”

“No, don’t do that.”

Sherlock blinked, raising his head to see an irritated smile crinkling the corners of John’s eyes. “Do what?”

“Deny your own accomplishments as the success of someone else,” John said with a wave of his hand as though this were the most obvious response on the planet.

Sherlock was indignant, his mouth open in offence. “I do  _ not _ -”

“Oh, yes you do.”

The two stared at each other for a long moment, Sherlock chewing his tongue as he reached for a quippy response.

“I simply recognize that without the electricity of others, my own light could not shine.”

“Oh, right, sure,” John chortled, disbelieving. “So, what? I’m your electricity?”

_ You’re my everything _ , Sherlock thought.  _ You’re my electricity, my conductor of light, my source of power, my everything _ .

“Yes,” he said instead flatly, flushing with the ridiculousness of such a thought. Where had _that_ come from?

The impact of the solitary word lingered between them as John’s eyes, still crinkled with laughter, softened into something more tender- something akin to understanding. His smile faded as they looked upon one another, a million things unsaid buzzing between them until the silence was loaded.

Sherlock was the first to look away, turning his attention to the cuticle of his left thumb. “Greg will be joining us. I hope you’ll assist me in teaching him a thing or two about deductive reasoning.”

“Ah.” He looked nearly… disappointed? But why? “And exactly how many students do you have, then?”

Sherlock saw the unremarkable question for what it was; the twinge of jealousy underlying the words gave him away.  “As of this moment, just one.”

“Oh?” said John, his voice assuming a much lighter air. “And how’s he coming along, then?”

Sherlock leaned in, unconsciously pulling himself closer to him. “He shows a decent amount of promise.”

John appeared surprised but quite pleased by these words. Sherlock loathed how the words escaped sultrily. He hadn’t intended it as such- had he?

“Speaking of, I actually meant to tell you,” John said excitedly, “about how I figured out a woman was scamming customers at the corner store.”

John broke into a story about an early morning adventure to pick up some needed essentials when he saw a woman begging for money. Her shoes, he reasoned, were far too extravagant for a beggar. Upon closer inspection, he caught a whiff of a beautiful perfume. He was moving his arms animatedly, the story taking over any reason that would have told him to stop waving his limbs around like a mad man. Sherlock found himself leaning in further still, enthralled not with the recount, but at the passion with which John spoke of it. He could have listened to these mundane tales, these elementary deductions for days.

“Then I spotted a man who could only be her accomplice-”

“Oi, you two come here often?”

Greg’s timbre broke through the illusion that had settled between John and Sherlock. It was only upon Greg’s entrance that Sherlock realized the ludicrous smile stretched across his own face and how drastically he’d been leaning over the table to get minutely closer to John. His eyes flew wide with alarm as he saw Greg looking at the two of them from the bar several metres away.

He had no reason to panic, and yet it crept through him like boiling water trickling upward. 

Preoccupied with playing cool, he couldn’t spot John’s reaction but he kept his eyes on Greg as he thanked the bartender and walked over to the two of them with a drink (triple whiskey neat) in his hands. Based on the way the drink flew to his mouth before he even reached the pair of them, Sherlock would place Greg’s last drink at over three hours ago. 

“Ease up, mate,” Greg said before taking another drink of the sloshing amber liquid. “I’m not actually using my super successful pickup line on either of you.”

“Super successful?” asked John, and though his tone was sarcastic, Sherlock still couldn’t bear to turn toward him to share a knowing smile.

“He’s exaggerating, of course,” Sherlock said with a tone he hoped was casual. “Unless, of course, 11% is now a ‘super successful’ rate.”

“Piss off,” Greg said with a smile that was damn contagious. “Mind if I join? Unless I’m mistaken, you were going to teach me some invaluable lessons on… what’d you call it? The  _ art of deduction _ ?”

A wave of relief flooded him at this excuse to put a buffer between himself and John. He said “Absolutely!” enthusiastically while, across from him, John said, “Of course,” at the same time.

“Brilliant!” Greg took another, longer drink of his whiskey until no more liquid remained in the glass and released a soft hiss of enjoyment. “I’m going to get one more, yeah? Then we’ll have some fun.”

And they did, indeed, have fun. Greg sat to the left of Sherlock and the to the right of John where the three formed a happy little circle. Sherlock, who had only ever had one friend, found himself snorting with laughter alongside two new wonderful ones. Greg got a great deal of enjoyment out of Sherlock’s reasoning and got a great deal more enjoyment out of challenging it.

“Yes, but couldn’t she just as easily just own an old dress?” Greg asked when Sherlock had reasoned a woman was poor because of the second-hand dress she was wearing.

“No,” he retorted impatiently. “The dress is sewn in three places but not in the fourth. If she knew how to sew or had the supplies, she would have fixed the fourth tear before heading out. Instead, she bought it patched up and hasn’t been able to fix the fourth tear- the tear she made herself.”

“Pah!” Greg conceded while John had a poorly suppressed bout of laughter behind his hands.

Sherlock continued to do this: analyze his surroundings, made educated assumptions, and then explaining his reasoning. After about an hour of this (fifteen minutes of which were spent arguing with Greg), Sherlock prompted Greg to take a stab at his own talent.

The first two attempts were disastrous. He screwed his face up in concentration toward random people, fixating on the wrong evidence to support outrageous claims. The lot of it piqued his interest, his drinking even slowing down as he grew more fascinated, though he didn’t realize it. The three of them snickered together at his attempts, though he didn’t get disheartened.

“Okay, help me,” he begged. “Look at these people and give me an easy one.”

Sherlock looked around until he saw a man whose life could be read on his clothes and face. “Alright, how about that gentleman over there? The one in blue?”

“Okay, okay, give me a moment.”

John and Sherlock sat quietly and patiently while Greg stared intently at the man, occasionally muttering things like “No, that’s not it” or “but what does it mean?” until, finally, he smacked his hand on the table in triumph.

“I got it.”

“Go on, then.”

“He’s a businessman,” he started. “The way he’s dressed doesn’t say ‘factory worker’, does it? And I can tell he’s gotta wake up early tomorrow because he has quite a lot of drink glasses around him, doesn’t he? But the one he has now is water. If he was concerned with getting too drunk, he wouldn’t have had that many drinks to begin with. But if he’s too drunk right now and he has to wake up early tomorrow? He’s trying to fight off a hangover. He’s married but- unhappily, right? He’s got the ring but he’s still shooting glances over at that group of dames over there. And, finally, he needs glasses because that group of dames ain’t even much too look at.”

Sherlock and John wore matching expressions to indicate how impressed they were with his reasoning. When he said nothing, Greg turned to look at him and asked, “Am I right?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” said Sherlock, feeling a puddle of pride bloom inside him, foreign and unexpected.

“Did I get it all?” he asked, even more hopeful now, eyes glimmering in the dim light. Happiness suited him.

“Nearly.”

“ _ Shit _ ! What did I miss?” Greg groaned.

“He’s a drug addict.”

For a long moment, Greg simply blinked at Sherlock, John also turning a surprised face toward him. “How the bloody hell could you possibly know that?” he demanded, his eyebrows furrowing and his face more genuinely curious than joking now.

There was, of course, plenty of physical evidence so, instead of admitting the unpleasant truth of his own addiction, he shrugged and said, “It’s elementary if you know what to look for.”

“If you’re just making this up-”

“Look at his fingernails, Greg. Look at the way he keeps touching his arm. Look at his rapid breathing, the way he’s desperate to get away from his interaction. Look at the way-”

“Alright, alright,” he interrupted, rolling his eyes and conceding his defeat. “I believe you, no need to show off.”

“Ah, but that’s his favourite bit,” John said, raising his eyebrows once toward Greg, who let out one bark of laughter.

“It is  _ not _ -” Sherlock began, pouting.

“But besides the drug addiction,” Greg said, changing the subject, “Did I get it all?”

“Yes, actually.”

“He’s actually pretty good, Sherlock,” John said, nodding his head. “Could be a cop.”

“Indeed. There’s one final test, though,” said Sherlock, a devilish smile crossing his face. “To prove you’ve got it.”

“Anyone,” Greg said confidently. He sat up straighter, his eyes narrowed in cocky preparation. Unbelievable. The man got one thing right and it went right to his head. Sherlock repressed an eye roll, though he was amused. “Anyone in the whole bar, just name ‘em.”

“John.”

Sherlock watched with malevolent joy as the word sunk into the both of them. Greg’s eyes went wide and his mouth formed a smirk as he looked quickly from Sherlock to John and back. John’s smile, that had been brimming with peaceful pleasure, faded so quickly, his eyes were still alight with it even after his face fell.

“Wait- what?” John asked, a bit slowly.

“Deduce John.” Sherlock swept his hand lazily toward where John sat.

“Wha-  _ Why _ ?” demanded John.

“Because you’re a challenge to deduce and he knows you well enough that it will cloud his judgement,” Sherlock relayed as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. But then again, to him, it was.

“I don’t-”

“Shut it, Johnny boy,” Greg said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I’m already doing it and I need silence.”

John shifted uncomfortably twice while Greg’s eyes flitted across his body. Once, he even leaned in and sniffed him, which John objected to avidly. Sherlock sat perfectly still, not a single muscle moving as he watched Greg look for all the wrong clues.

“The only thing I can figure is that he’s been stood up for a date,” he said, finally, shaking Sherlock to his core with the simple admission. He sounded defeated, as though this conclusion weren’t enough. To Sherlock, however, it was infinitely more fascinating than any drug addict ever could be.

“What? Why do you say that?” he asked quickly, quietly, leaning in and allowing his fascination to pour out. He couldn’t help it. If Greg was right, why hadn’t John said anything?

Greg was utterly perplexed by Sherlock’s sharp interest. He seemed confused, alarmed even. “Well, look at the way he’s dressed. He hasn’t even worn that shirt before, no matter how fancy the occasion, right? Not even the preliminaries. So it must be new- or particularly special, yeah? But then why wear it tonight? This is an insubstantial gig, mate. And his hair is done up real nice, I reckon he even brushed it. He even of cologne too, which he normally doesn't. So I would say he’s prepared for a date but it’s-” he checked his watch and his eyes widened, “Blimey! It’s ten o’clock. So there’s no chance of a date this late, is there? So he dressed for one but isn’t on one- stood up, then.”

Silence. Sherlock’s eyebrows were pulled together so tightly, they were separated only by the width of a hair. He stared unblinkingly at Greg for a long time after he finished speaking, utterly amazed at his words because… he was right. And Sherlock had missed it. Greg shifted under Sherlock’s immovable gaze as his mind raced repeated through the reasoning- flawless, all of it. Sherlock had even noticed that he was wearing new trousers- he’d noticed when he saw the mud stains upon them.

Eyes flitting to John, the sight astonished him. John was the colour of a tomato, his eyes cast down to his hands and refusing to look toward either of them. He was wringing his hands and looked toward the bar more than once- looking for an escape.

John was dressed for a date.

John had not been stood up, however.

John had asked Sherlock to join him in a drink.

“Er- did I get it right?” Greg’s question punctured Sherlock’s racing thoughts. He sat up straight, urging his face to return to a normal, neutral state. 

“Yes, I rather think you did.”

* * *

**Late January 1946**

Once the idea was planted in his head, it could not be removed. If John hadn’t had any other arrangements, as Sherlock suspected, did that mean John had dressed up for him?

They were inarguably close- closer, he thought, than either of them had ever expected. Late nights together were coated with an intimacy that was unrivalled in Sherlock’s life save for one lost love. Even then, this was… different.

It didn’t matter either way, he supposed. John was clearly not a viable option for himself, as evidenced by his blatant attraction to an array of various women. Still, in the darkened evenings in his flat, when John would sit across from him, lost in thought or talking of society’s hypocrisy toward soldiers, Sherlock would allow, for mere moments, suspension of disbelief. He would allow, for only the shortest of seconds, to consider this: a life with John.

Those moments of surprising pleasure were always followed by a lingering sensation of disappointment.

Which is why it was perhaps a disastrous decision to take him up on his offer to teach him piano. Those hours with John by his side, guiding his fingers, correcting his form… Sherlock was not a weak-willed man but in those hours-

Well. Needless to say, Sherlock was second-guessing the decision to put himself in that position. The result of spending increasing times with John, however, was that he found his general mood to be improved. Soon, even Mrs. Hudson was noticing.

“Will John be coming by today?” she asked in what she thought was a casual sort of voice.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered too quickly. “Why?”

“Just wondering, dear.” Her back was to him as she cleaned a spot on his stove but the smile could be heard in her voice. “Didn’t see him yesterday is all. And you two have been spending an awful lot of time together…”

Her voice trailed off and Sherlock could have hidden his head inside his shirt for all the embarrassment he felt. “Whatever you’re insinuating, I assure you-”

“Not insinuating,” she said lightly, turning to face him now with the dirty rag held between her right thumb and forefinger. “I’m happy for you is all. Loneliness didn’t suit you.”

_ Loneliness didn’t suit you _ .

It was as though a wrecking ball had bowled him over. Of all the things to consider of such a statement, it brought to mind only one person. One person who, as unpleasant and rude as he was, was also very lonely. Perhaps… Perhaps loneliness didn’t suit him, either.

So one dreary day in late January, Sherlock proposed an outing to Philip after a rehearsal.

Philip had been nothing but irritable and short with Sherlock since the first time John had brought him along to rehearsal, but it was only in the shadow of Mrs. Hudson's words that Sherlock fully appreciated that Philip’s poor behaviour ran deeper than simple jealousy of his and John’s closeness. In conjunction with his small, hopeless crush on John, he was now absolutely convinced that Philip must be experiencing deep loneliness; deeper, even, than Sherlock had ever been. That sort of isolation wouldn’t suit anybody, after all.

So Sherlock took him out to a particularly famous gay bar that he’d frequented with Victor back before- before he got shipped off to war. While there, Philip’s guard remained on high alert even as he allowed his eyes to drift repeatedly to various handsome men around him. It was too easy to convince him to approach a particularly dapper young man. It was far too easy to slip away with a clumsy excuse of a vague emergency after the two were talking for roughly twenty minutes. It was much more difficult to keep his mind away from pondering whether his plan was successful once he’d returned to his too-quiet flat.

He couldn’t wait to tell John that his plan had (hopefully) worked.

* * *

**16 February 1946**

Their crowd was modest for a Friday evening. At the beginning of their show, there were a mere 97 guests mingling around, talking to one another and paying no mind to the entering musicians. Toward the end, their music had drawn an additional 22 guests as their music floated through the open door. Al liked to keep the doors open on weekends to draw in passersby as well as to assist in cooling down the enormous room that would get hot with mingled body heat.

Following their exit off the stage, Sholto cleared his throat almost immediately and addressed the lot of them with an anxious sort of joy. “Before you all go off, there’s someone I would like to introduce you to.”

They exchanged curious looks but followed him wordlessly as he led the way to the main lobby. There was a woman standing alone, though her status didn’t seem to bother her one bit. Where others in solitude are often uncomfortable, fidgeting with their hands or otherwise glancing at the lives around them, this woman was calm and still, looking interested at a sign that listed all the upcoming shows for February and early March. 

“Lottie,” Sholto called when they were a respectable distance. She turned then and her face broke into a wide smile, her teeth glimmering almost as much as the twinkle in her eye when she caught sight of him. She was admittedly a beautiful woman. With long, curling blonde hair that mingled with hues of red and pronounced rosy cheeks, not even the fine lines that decorated her eyes and mouth could take away from her beauty.

This could only be his wife, then. How had Sherlock missed the fact that Sholto had reconnected with his wife? Upon meeting Sholto he’d surely noticed immediately that he was separated from his wife. Then, of course, he’d noticed when he’d taken to boarding with Tobias- not that he’d shared that information with anyone. Their arrangement was their own, after all. Yet how had he missed the evidence that they’d reconnected? It was only too obvious when he looked upon Sholto at this moment.

“This is the band,” he said, voice holding a softer quality than Sherlock had ever heard before. One by one, he gestured to the lot of them, naming them off one by one. In turn, they shook her hand except for Greg, who decided a bow was more appropriate. “And men, this is Charlotte- my wife.”

He said the word with enough pride to fill the room. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” she said, her voice lilting. “You were great up there.”

She’d meant it for all of them, but she was only looking at her husband. Sherlock followed suit, making note of his collar, his eyes, and his hands. His collar, which had been perfectly straight at the beginning of their performance, was now rumbled, the left corner lifting up to tickle his chin when he turned a certain way. If he’d noticed it, he would certainly fix it. But the fact that he didn’t notice in the first place spoke volumes about his mind’s ability to wander from its standard fixations. His eyes were softer, less focused. His hands, so usually curling in on themselves or fidgeting with the nearest item that he could grasp, were still and being used animatedly as he spoke to his wife and were still as he watched with a smile as the rest of them conversed.

The words exchanged were lost on Sherlock as he tumbled down his tunnel of thought. He’d been so fixated on himself that he’d missed the signs. What else did he miss? He sought Greg first, noting that he was no longer suffering from his nightmares. No, he was sleeping through the night. He already knew that. Wiggins looked to be about the same. Many of his problems stemmed from his injury, providing him chronic pain and cognitive problems. The band couldn’t help with those things, but Wiggins was perhaps less anxious than he used to be. Philip was in a much better mood as of late, though this, at least, had not been lost on Sherlock. Tobias, even, was reluctantly enjoying himself as he spoke to Charlotte.

Then there was John.

John, who had been sleep-deprived and depressed 96 days ago was happier, certainly. He’d gained some much-needed weight and obtained distance from the troubles of the war. Yet his eyes were as tired as ever, his body wearing every sign of an insomniac.

Why?  _ Why _ had John not improved as the others did? Why was he still staying up at night, haunted? What was he hiding? For he was, clearly and indisputably, hiding something.

He knew it instinctually: the truth that he’d been ignoring, the truth he didn’t want to confront, the truth that he couldn’t admit.

John was hiding something- something related to Victor.

Sherlock hated to think of it. Sherlock hated to acknowledge it. Sherlock had been hoping to avoid addressing it for as long as he was alive, hoping to live eternally in denial.

But perhaps he was wrong. Maybe it was nothing. Perhaps John so hated talking about Victor for the same reason that Sherlock did: perhaps it was simply too painful. Perhaps, even, his pain about Victor and his insomnia were independent of one another.

Maybe, just maybe, John was hiding nothing at all.

His head rattling with conflict, he remained distant as they all conversed, waiting impatiently until he could escape the necessity of polite conversation. At last, Sholto and Charlotte excused themselves to have some one-on-one time in a corner of the dying club and they dispersed to partake in their own necessary tasks. John fell into step with Sherlock naturally, the pair of them moving without thought to gather their things and leave the hushed tones of the crowd around them.

The night air enveloped them as they left the warm light of the club. They talked without care for nearly a kilometre, their easy conversation grating further on Sherlock’s anxious, dancing nerves with each passing step.

“I think Victor would have really liked that new song we did tonight,” he blurted out, aiming for a casual tone, though it sounded loaded in his own ears. He was studying John closely, willing himself to catch every bit of evidence that he would supply.

John, who had been perfectly relaxed, chattering away about the growing income from their performances, nearly stopped dead in his tracks. His muscles tightened, his mouth falling into one thin line. “Yeah, I reckon he would have,” he said, much too quietly with a tension that was palpable.

_ Why _ ?

If John had been such good friends with Victor, why act this way?

“Did you two ever sing together? He was bloody awful but he loved to do it.”

“No. We- er, never did.”

“His favourite-”

“Hey,” John interrupted. “I just remembered, I gotta get home. I have- I have a- a letter to write- before I forget the details of tonight.”

“Oh.”

It was a lie. He knew it to be a lie.

“Good night, then.”

He did not wait for a response and, instead, turned on his heels and walked away without another word, leaving Sherlock alone, frozen, and confused.

Didn’t he have a right to know why John couldn’t even bear to speak of Victor? Couldn’t bear to hear his name, even? Was he expected to choose between his friendship with John and never speaking of his late husband ever again? After all these months, did Sherlock not deserve to understand?

Come hell or high water, he would find out. Tomorrow. He deserved to know. He had to know. Their time had run out.

He couldn’t explain how he’d reached the end of his patience so abruptly. He hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t expected it to eat him up inside with such rapid ferocity. It was a dam being released, this sudden flood. But it was a curiosity he’d suppressed for too long, a truth he'd been avoiding, and it was now no longer acceptable to wait silently for John to confide in him since he was so clearly never going to do so.

He wanted to know the truth.

Tomorrow.

He  _ needed  _ to know the truth.

Tomorrow.

John could have his secrecy for one more evening.

Tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, that "deleted scene" that I mentioned from Greg's chapter is now canon but featured from Sherlock's POV instead. :) I also get "Danny Boy" stuck in my head _every single time_ Greg called John "Johnny boy." It's a cursed reference that I'm making.
> 
> Deductions are _not_ my thing, so I beg you to cut me some slack. 🙏
> 
> The next chapter is the very first scene I ever wrote for this fic. Stay tuned.


	23. Get Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 97 days after the two met, Sherlock demands the truth from John.

In the dying embers of the day, John sat alone in his living room, looking at the spaces between the bricks of his fireplace. His thoughts were far from the fireplace, far from Cardiff, far from Europe. They were in the Solomon Islands where the raging heat was creating beads of sweat along his shoulders and under his nose. His feet were sore, his shoes caked with layers of dried mud beneath a thick layer of fresh mud. In these thoughts, Victor was beside him, giving him the strength to continue. He recalled the memories with a pain unparalleled by any he’d ever experienced.

Recalling Victor was as painful now as it had been the night he died. John lost many friends in that war and but Victor was no friend. He had been his best friend- his brother. Through it all- the endless days in battle, the painful treks through the tropics, the neverending heat- Victor had been a beacon toward life and perseverance. When he died, John had no hope to hold onto and only survived the remainder of the conflict because he’d made a vow to Victor that he would deliver his letter to Sherlock, who John had incorrectly assumed was his wife.

So, in fact, even in death, Victor was responsible for John’s continued life.

John owed everything to him: his survival, his stubborn hope, and now even his companionship with Sherlock.

His stomach lurched uncomfortably, driving his thoughts away from the death that was creeping up around him. His thoughts spiralled, always spiralled, always to the same place.

Try to sleep, spiral. Try to compose music, spiral. Try to move on, spiral.

He leaned his head back again the headrest of his old, peeling chair. If only he could sleep for two hours, he would be refreshed. Surely he could just rest his eyes, just doze off a bit-

_Johnny!_

But there was his voice again, right on cue. Those words shouted at John in the heat of battle lived on inside him as though Victor really were next to him, shouting through gunfire. Victor would not let John sleep. Victor would haunt him all his life. Victor would not let John know peace.

A sharp rap against his door pulled him sharply out of his thoughts. The muscles along his neck protested against the speed with which he moved his head toward the door. Two sharp knocks in quick procession- it was Sherlock’s knock.

John’s eyebrows pulled together and he considered the day: the 17th of February. No performances, no rehearsals- why would Sherlock be here? They never met here.

He rose from his chair and strutted to the doorway, nerves raising with every passing step. Swinging the door open, John took in the sight of Sherlock before him, tall and manic. The energy around him was strange, active, anxious. In his eyes, John saw something like determination mingled with an almost sort of fear.

“Sherlock,” he said in way of greeting, stepping aside as he said, “What’re you doing here?”

Sherlock seamlessly slid past John and he fought against the impulse to treasure the sensation of his body sliding so close to his own. There was a lingering gust of air after his motion and John had to force himself to stay focused and close the door.

Sherlock halted and stood frozen, remaining eerily still in the centre of his living room.

John tried again. “What’s going on?”

“I need to talk to you,” Sherlock said quickly, professionally. He maintained an eye contact with John that he was incapable of breaking. John stepped a bit closer, though sensing it was perhaps ill-advised to sit or stand too close to him.

“Alright,” he said, unsure. “What about?”

“Victor.”

Ice in his chest, ice in his veins, ice chilling every cell in his body. “What about him?”

“Whatever it is you’re not telling me.” Sherlock’s shoulders were squared, his eyes wide to reflect the last few struggling rays of sunlight outside. His apartment was dim, the air stagnant, the atmosphere tense and unsure.

No. Not here. Not now.

“I don’t- What do you mean?” John asked, attempting to sound innocent and failing spectacularly. His heart was beating loud enough to hear the blood in his ears, loud enough to betray him.

“Don’t insult me,” Sherlock said, voice falling to frustration for the smallest moment. “I know you’re hiding something. I know it. I used to think it was okay, that it would pass, that I could live with it. But it’s not. And it hasn't. And… I can’t.”

Before him, Sherlock was standing tall, determined, radiating a tense professionalism that John didn’t understand how to react to. He was certain this couldn’t be happening, certain this was a terrible, terrible nightmare borne of his nodding off on that old chair.

“John.” His name a swelling desire on Sherlock’s lips. Not a desire for passion, but a desire for the truth.

The truth, at last.

There was no way around it, no way to continue in silence. He was spiralling, spiralling, spiralling.

 _There is a train_.

No, not now. John shut his eyes against the ghost of Victor, willing him to disperse.

“John,” Sherlock said one last time, barely taking in air. When John opened his eyes, he saw a crazed desperation in Sherlock that hadn’t been there before. “Please.

John had been a Captain in the Army during the world’s greatest war but this- this required a whole different sort of bravery.

“Alright,” he said, more to himself than anything. “I shouldn’t have- I should have told you long ago. That first day, really.”

Sherlock stayed silent.

“I shouldn’t have-”

“Stalling,” Sherlock snapped.

He was right. He could have stalled forever.

Except that he couldn't.

“It’s about the day that- that he died.” This surprised Sherlock, his eyes flying wide. Apparently, he was realizing that what was about to come was a revolution. He looked scared, trepid.

A breath. A burning behind John's eyes. A reluctant steeled resolve.

“There was an ambush,” he said, voice trembling over every letter. Tears fell silently along his cheeks and he could no longer bear to meet the wide, terrorized eyes that looked unblinking upon him. “We were in the trenches and we weren't prepared. The man next to me was shot as he laughed at a joke- that I made. It was sudden, it caught us off guard and I panicked. Victor didn't.”

“We knew the drill. We were soldiers. I needed to lead them and Victor… he always knew what to say.”

Sherlock was clearly too horrified to speak, to move, to react. This was not what he’d expected. He was motionless, breathless, helpless.

“Whenever it used to be too much for me- the war, the killings, the starvation, the cold, the heat, the bugs, the constant fear- he used to tell me it would be okay because, one day, the war would be over. And we would be free. And there would be a train.”

_There is a train: it leaves the station at a quarter after five._

“And that train would take us home. Directly home. We would ride first class and everyone- they would thank us for what we sacrificed for Britain. But first, we needed to fight, needed to win.”

_And it’s direct to Cardiff General from this hell hole._

“So we watched our friend die in the first shots of the ambush and he looked me in the eyes- I was frozen in panic and grief- the war bursting with explosions all around us and he reminded me that we needed to get through this. He reminded me of the train- it cleared my head, as it always did. The hope of it all. I nodded, my panic fading as I looked at him and it was replaced by a familiar clarity of war. Still, Victor took over the situation, leading our men to action while bullets and grenades flew around us.”

_Alright, Watson. Grenade on my go!_

“He gave me a grenade, told me to wait for his signal while the other men got into position. When he shouted for action, I-I threw the grenade.”

_Go!_

“John,” Sherlock breathed, and in his name there was a horror beyond recognition, his eyes gleaming with a hint of understanding.

“But- but-” and his entire body was shaking, his eyes blurry, his world shattering. He forced himself on, the clarity of battle- this dramatically different sort of battle- overcoming his urge to run. “But- I didn't throw the grenade hard enough. It… fell. Back into our trench. It rolled too far away from me to risk grabbing it for a second throw. It was better- safer to get out. I screamed at everyone to get out, screamed it over and over and watched everyone scramble away and I, too, crawled my way out.

GET OUT!

“But when I turned around to help Victor up, he was still down there. He- he was tending to someone and he hadn't heard me. I screamed and screamed for his attention, reaching my arm toward him to help him.”

VIC, GET OUT! VICTOR!

“When he finally looked up… he was so confused. He didn't know what to do and I couldn't explain so I just kept shouting-”

**GET OUT!**

“But… it was over. The grenade- it went off and he was still down there and I couldn't- I didn't- I never-”

He crumbled internally, his soul giving out, the tragedy of the truth too much to live with. Still, his knees were locked, his muscles tense and while his mind, soul, and will-power changed to dust, he stood helplessly still save for his head, which finally rose to meet the terrified eyes of Victor's widower.

It was silent for an eternity. There existed only Sherlock, still as the dead, and John, cheeks wet with his silent tears and frozen only by the weight of the truth that finally lay between them both.

“You-” Sherlock was trembling, too shocked for tears or even a hint of emotion upon his face. He was dead-pan, only the wavering words exposing deeper waters. “You killed him.”

John would have laid down his life in an instant to make that statement false. He would have made any deal with any devil to alter the reality. He would have welcomed death without question if he could erase what he did.

“Yes.”

Something infinitesimally small changed in those luminous eyes, but John knew that small change was the crack in their relationship that would never seal. He knew that change was the only thing that would ever matter again. He knew that change was Sherlock seeing him for who he truly was and deciding that he hated him.

Sherlock's unblinking eyes filled with tears slowly, slowly without falling as he looked upon John in that dim room, leaning minutely away, the muscles in his face shifting into a mask of pure disgust, hatred, contempt.

“You killed Victor.” Sherlock said it with such finality that it enacted his tears, finally streaming freely as the truth hit him in full at last. Sherlock’s hand went to his mouth, his gaze finally moving from John to an unfixed point, as though the escape from this lay somewhere visible in the room.

“Sherlock-” John begged, uncertain of what he could possibly say that would help any of this.

“Don't,” he snapped viciously. His chest was heaving to fan the wild flame of hatred in his expression that was raging without control. “Don't. Ever again.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, nothing but a solitary choked vowel emerging. He closed it, squeezed his eyes closed tightly to release three tears, then opened his eyes away from John, turned around, and left.

And there was John, alone in a silent, unfeeling world, caught in between reliving his worst nightmare and living through a brand new one.


	24. Everything Happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John shares an Earth-shattering admission, Sherlock can think of only one way to numb the pain threatening to overwhelm him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Please bear with me, the opening and ending notes will be a bit long on this chapter.  
> Let me begin by saying: I am so sincerely sorry for not responding to all of your lovely comments on the past two chapters. I have no good excuse, but a feeble one: I've been so incredibly busy. I vow to you all that I will respond to all of them tonight because I sincerely, truly, deeply appreciate every kind word you all have left. Please forgive me.
> 
> Shout out to SoSoHolmesWatson for being wonderfully supportive and for also correctly guessing that my continued use of "97" was, indeed, a countdown to the big reveal. I'm sorry if everyone was expecting something more dramatic, but there it is.  
> We're officially through most of the soundtrack this story is based on. Please see the endnotes for a Spotify link to which songs can now be safely listened to. 
> 
> TW: drug mentions and use  
>  **bilge** : 40s slang for bullshit

Betrayal.

Redhot, boiling, searing betrayal.

It was like losing Victor all over again, this fresh wave of agony crashing over him. He was drowning in it, screaming for air while doing so fed the flames inside him that would ensure his death.

It was like losing him all over again, the certainty that he would never laugh again.

It was like losing him all over again and yet, somehow, worse. Before, when he'd first lost him, he had been certain he would never laugh again. Yet the one man who ensured that he  _ did  _ feel joy again was the same man who was responsible for that terrible feeling in the first place.

John.

The winter air was frigid, the streets a blur of nonsense around him. Through his fresh grief, his maddening sorrow,  he understood only one coherent thought: he needed a sweet release. This was not a reality he wanted to live in. He needed that which could be his only release.

His mind was chaos and still all at once, his thoughts on fire as they burned only one repeating sentence:  _ John’s fault, John’s fault, John’s fault _ .

There was no reason, no rationalization as his feet carried him knowingly through the darkened city. There were few bodies on the street since the sun had set and as such, no bodies prevented his manic flight down the crumbling roads. Or just maybe the roads were fine and it was himself that was crumbling.

His feet carried him to the grimy alley that held the stench of rotting food, though none of it bothered him. All he needed, surely, was the supply inside Wiggins’ pockets.

“Fancy a stroll in the park?” Wiggins’ voice was hoarse from lack of use, his head remaining downturned. He didn’t recognize Sherlock. Then again, why should he? Sherlock hadn’t been around in months.

“No.” He hadn’t noticed until that very moment that his voice was thick with tears. His cheeks were coated in a moisture that he was numb to. “I prefer to ride my horse through the park.”

It was the correct answer to his question and should not have garnered such an aggressive response, but Wiggins’ reacted to his voice with a forceful jerk of his head. Sherlock could barely make out his figure in the dark, but the tense silence was concrete between them.

“Sherlock.” His voice was calm, quiet. “What are you doing here?”

“You know why I’m here.”

“Not necessarily.” Wiggins shifted where he sat, though did not rise. “Last time you came ‘round, you asked me to join a band.”

_ With John _ .

“No,” he spat, his voice coming out like venom. “You  _ know _ why I’m here.”

He was silent for an unnaturally long time, his body still as he took in the towering form of Sherlock before him.

“Shezzer,” he whispered, and he knew those blue eyes were staring at him beneath layers of filthy hair. “You’ve been doing so well-”

"Perhaps I'm wrong, William," he spat, "but it is my understanding that drug mules are not encouraged to talk clients out of purchasing their product."

There was one final expanse of silence that he refused to break, staring down Wiggins' indistinct form until, finally, he shifted where he sat and extracted a small sack from his jacket pocket. He withdrew a vibrant blue silky pouch that shone even in the pale moonlight peaking into the alleyway.

He took it wordlessly, throwing down a few pounds that covered the cost aptly before turning around and hurling himself away from the dreadful hell wherein he still couldn’t escape thoughts of John.

* * *

It took ages before he secured a location to safely take in his newly secured stash. He found his sanctuary down 38th Street, its silent surroundings offering ideal protection from wandering intruders.

He would, of course, prefer to partake in the comfort of his own living room, the comforting, familiar scent present to keep him tethered to reality. With the ever-present figure of his nosey landlady, however, he would need to settle for this isolated alleyway. Its bricks were lined with soot from years of accumulated filth, the smell of abandoned trash assaulting his nose. Soon, none of it would matter.

None of it.

His hand trembled to open the silky pouch he’d procured, desperate beyond reason to be under its influence. There was, of course, a warm rush to be desired from injecting the sweet, delectable substance, but he had neither the materials nor the patience to do the thing properly. Instead, he uneasily shook the bag along his forearm until there was an uneven line of off-white powder, not dissimilar to the cocaine he so prefered.

But stimulation was not what he required. He needed to be dragged down, strapped to the underbelly of reality until he could close his eyes and drift away. There was too much to feel, too much pain, too much suffering. It would never end, this grief that he’d been certain had ebbed away to give way to something akin to life.

He stared upon the line of powder glinting in the select few straggling rays of light that managed to peek through the gap between the buildings. There was a moment- just the shortest of moments- of hesitation. There was so much at stake. His sobriety, for one.

_ John’s fault, John’s fault, John’s fault _ .

But what help did his sobriety offer? What great comfort was sobriety in a world where John had killed the love of his life?

He bent his head down and placed his nose against the skin of his forearm, taking a long breath inward as he took in the long line of heroin.

But it was not warmth that spread through him, but a heavy, disorienting drowsiness. Before he understood what was happening, before his head even hit the ground, everything went black.

* * *

Where was he?

He certainly was not outdoors. His eyes remained stubbornly closed, his mind lagging in a refusal to comprehend his situation. Yet he knew he was no longer in the dark alleyway. The air was still, the material beneath him a cold metal, and there was a dim, artificial light shining through his eyelids to his left. There was a strangely familiar sound somewhere behind him, rhythmic tapping that tickled his brain, helped him find reality and grasp onto consciousness.

Sherlock opened his eyes, squinting against the pain induced by the bright light. The room was grey, small, and far too familiar. Stomach dropping to an uncomfortable place in his lower intestines, everything clicked into place all at once.

This was the room he’d been in when he had begged his brother to nullify the draft order. This was the office in which he’d given his reports on those codes he’d cracked during the war. This was the room he’d been in when Mycroft had told him of Victor’s passing.

He scrambled to his feet, the world tilting beneath him a bit and his mind not fully alert but positive that he must escape before-

“Three months.” The rhythmic tapping stopped, Sherlock’s mind racing to realize the sound had been the drumming of fingers upon wood. “Three months was all it took to abandon sobriety, was it?”

Rage filled every crevice of his body, serving to sharpen his mind, shake the remaining effects of what he was now certain had  _ not _ been the drug he’d paid for.

Betrayed by Wiggins as well, then.

Fantastic.

Sherlock turned around slowly to face his insufferable brother. He sat at his desk at the far end of the room, feet propped up as he leaned back comfortably in his leather chair. His face was smoothed of emotion. It was exactly the way he’d always insisted Sherlock should be: cold, distant from the effects of emotions, which he insisted was for those too idiotic to see reason. Sherlock had never been good at it and found it nearly impossible after Victor had taught him what love was.

But Mycroft had no idea what he was getting involved with. He had no idea that Sherlock  _ needed  _ to collapse back into his old drug habits. He had no idea of the sorrow with which he was dealing. His ignorance made him inexplicably angrier.

Though perhaps he was angry because he’d been drugged and kidnapped.

The dimly lit room was suffocating him, the solitary light failing to fully illuminate Mycroft, his figure cloaked in darkness befitting of the demon he was.

“Mycroft,” he said stiffly in way of greeting. He crossed to the short, cheap chair opposite Mycroft, gripping the top of it until his knuckles were white.

“Having a good night?” His tone was dry, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Sherlock.

“Piss off.”

His brother sighed, pulling his feet off his desk and sitting forward. His hands were tucked beneath his chin, his elbows in the desk and his eyes darted significantly to the chair that Sherlock gripped in his hands. “Sit, won’t you?”

“No.”

“Sherlock-”

“Piss off,” he repeated with as much hatred as he could manage. His eyes were darting for an escape, but he knew better than to try the door (knowing his brother, it would be locked with more what was visible). Perhaps if he kicked it?

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down.”

“No.”

_ John’s fault, John’s fault, John’s fault. _

He closed his eyes against the suddenly raging lights above him, against his brother’s infuriatingly pompous expression. A shaking breath attempted to steady him, but nothing could stop the rising noise within his mind from rebelling against any sense of peace that could possibly remain within him.

“Let me out,” he whispered without opening his eyes. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“ _ Let. Me. Go. _ ”

“John finally told you the truth, did he?”

It was getting hit by a train, it was the sound of a gunshot on a silent night, a strike of lightning on a clear night.

“What did you say?” His own voice sounded distant, a quiet muttering spoken by someone far from himself.

“Did John finally tell you of that day-”

“You knew.” It was not a question, yet the statement hung in the air, awaiting confirmation.

Mycroft was silent, his eyes alive and dancing while the rest of him remained still.

“Yes, of course.”

And it all hit him at once- Victor’s death, John’s secrecy, Mycroft’s betrayal in not telling him- accumulating into a rage and grief that was unstoppable, unreasoning. He lifted the chair before him in a sweeping arch over his head, throwing it with all the strength he possessed against the opposing wall. Guttural sounds escaped him and he possessed no self-restraint to quiet the weeping howls. Everything that he could grab was hurling across the room. A glass bust shattered in an array of shards, a copper nameplate caused a dent in the file cabinet it hit, a cup of pens hit the wall with a dull thunk. He screamed and destroyed Mycroft’s office until nothing remained within him but a shallow desire for it all to end. There was nothing more to throw as an expression of his anger and he crumpled to the floor, his knees protesting against the pain but he paid no mind.

By the end of it, all of his fury had burned away to reveal something much worse beneath it: numb, empty bitterness.

“You knew,” he choked, eyes closed, head hanging, and voice thick with the tears that didn’t fall down his cheeks. “You knew that John killed him and you  _ let _ me get close to him. You  _ knew _ .”

His fingers were a tight fist, more to allow his fingernails to dig into his skin than anything else. The pain was welcome, needed.

“Yes,” Mycroft said with a surprising softness. “Yes, I knew.”

“How?”

Sherlock’s eyes were closed but he could practically hear his brother’s mind processing how to answer the question.

“I saw him that day. He came running into the tent, positively torn apart by the death of his friend. His behaviour was… not that of an innocent man. It wasn’t a far leap to make. My questioning of the other men- those who survived the battle, at least- confirmed it.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. How could his brother withhold this critical piece of information in his hands and refuse to pass it along? Did that make this as much Mycroft’s fault as John’s? Surely not. Mycroft, after all, didn’t allow clumsy fingers to drop a grenade on Sherlock’s whole life. Though his mind cared not for this fact as it continued to resent his brother for his secrecy.

“This isn’t his fault, you know,” Mycroft said, dragging Sherlock away from his uniquely painful stream of consciousness.

His eyes flew open, his head turning wildly toward Mycroft in crazed disbelief at these words. “ _ Not his fault _ ?”

“No.”

He shook his head at the gall of his brother. “Of course it is,” he said, wishing he still possessed the anger to shout the words. He was suppressing the urge to throw something else of Mycroft’s out of sheer protest. “He’s here, isn’t he? And Victor isn’t. Of  _ course  _ it’s his fault.”

Hot, painful tears made themselves known behind his eyes, his throat tight with the effort of withstanding the urge to succumb to emotion. Emotion was, after all, the thing against which Mycroft had perpetually warned him. Then again, it was always the thing which Victor had always encouraged. The two conflicting forces within him were battling within him, each taking their turn for victory. 

“Wrong again, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s hands turned into tighter fists at his sides. “Fuck you.”

“Sherlock, do you believe that John would be alive right now if Victor’s death was truly his fault?”

“I- What?”

“Surely you don’t believe that John would be permitted to live if I’d uncovered that he was responsible for Victor’s death.”

His eyebrows furrowed in response, anger falling away to confusion as his mind raced to understand. “But he said-”

“No, what he said was true. He did drop a grenade that ultimately resulted in harming Victor- fatally, I’m afraid. Though it was, sincerely and wholly, an accident.”

“That doesn’t matter-”

“Are you aware, dear brother, just how deeply John has suffered due to that incident?”

“I-” Sherlock stopped dead, momentarily forgetting his previous train of thought. Truthfully, no. He hadn’t stopped to consider John’s suffering. “It’s his own fault,” he spat, refusing to concede his own internal hesitation.

“Yes,” Mycroft said slowly, folding his hands together. “That’s quite what he believes as well.”

All air left him, the simple sentence successfully stunning him into silence.

“You’ll never believe me, certainly,” Mycroft continued through his silence, “though I assure you that he has suffered a great deal more from that incident than you ever have.”

“What a load of bilge-”

“Oh, wisen up,” Mycroft snapped, his patience wearing for the first time. His eyes were alight with emotion against which he’d campaigned against so vehemently. “John loved him dearly, Sherlock. Not as you did, of course, but they were best mates. The only friend you’ve ever had was one you married, though I assure you that the bond of friendship between men in war is a bond terribly close in intensity. He and John were inseparable, Victor’s death would have devastated him regardless. But the fact that he dropped the grenade that ended his life? John has been dealing with guilt on top of grief. His guilt made worse by his closeness with you, surely. Though, miraculously, both of you have been healed by the scars earned from the war with each other, brought together by the very thing that caused you both pain-”

“What are you saying?” Sherlock interrupted, certain he could not hear anymore of how it was somehow a good thing that Victor was gone and that John had nearly replaced him. “That everything happens for a reason? Don’t be so naive-”

“No.” Mycroft heaved a sigh, his eyes intent on Sherlock who was frozen where he stood. “No, everything doesn’t happen for a reason. Everything happens. Just that. Everything happens; there’s no rhyme or reason behind any of it, I’m afraid. Though I’m sure that would be a comforting thought, the fact is that any reasoning supplied to horrible events is a fool’s errand.”

The very thing against which Sherlock had been rebelling a few seconds ago now felt a preferred alternative. The reality of what Mycroft was saying felt worse, somehow. “How very reassuring.”

Mycroft simply shrugged. “There is no fate, Sherlock. There is no “great plan,” there’s no destiny. To believe in such a thing is to believe that there is no free will, of which you have plenty.”

“And yet I haven’t the free will to leave,” Sherlock grumbled.

Mycroft chuckled, commenting, “No, I’m afraid this office is subject to  _ my _ free will, not yours.”

They remained in silence for a long moment, both of them lost in respective thoughts before Mycroft continued, “Destiny has nothing to do with any of it. There is no reason for your trumpet player to have been held prisoner of war and tortured, acid disfiguring his face. It was not fate that conspired the bullet to make its way into your drummer’s brain. Everything doesn’t happen for a reason. Everything happens. And we adjust as needed.”

“John’s friendship with Victor, his terrible accident, and his promise to Victor to deliver his letter was not fate,” Mycroft continued. “Victor was not destined to die and John to take his place, Sherlock. What happened is simply life. And you can either dwell on the past or you can adjust. You are welcome to drown in your sorrows and spend the rest of your days angry at John for something he will always be angrier at himself for. But if you want to do the reasonable thing, there’s only one thing you need to understand.”

“What’s that?” He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

“The only thing that matters when something happens is what happens after.”

* * *

After several hours alone, mind saturated in thoughts of his brother's words, there was no temptation calling him to fall into the escape of heroin. He wasn't certain he could ever forgive John for everything that had come to light, but his anger and resentment had diminished to a cool understanding. After Mycroft was successfully convinced that the hazardous thoughts that had previously consumed him were dried up, he was freed from that grey, unfeeling room. 

When he was released, Sherlock walked the deserted streets of Cardiff so lost in his own thoughts, he nearly walked straight past his quiet flat. It was nearly four in the morning and the winter sun wouldn’t begin to shine on the civilians for a few hours still. The street was silent, no creature alive making a sound. He climbed the steps up to his flat, careful to skip the creaking step that might have alerted Mrs. Hudson to his entrance.

_ The only thing that matters when something happens is what happens after. _

The words echoed on repeat in his mind even as he willed them not to. Just as the words “John’s fault” had been an endless loop, his brother’s voice now occupied that position.

_ The only thing that matters when something happens is what happens after. _

Victor passed away. That was what happened. There was nothing to do about it, no use placing blame- though a part of him was still trying desperately to do so.  Therefore, the only thing that mattered now was everything that had happened afterwards.

His mind wandered to those who had most been impacted by John after and because of that event. He remembered the band- their lives had been scattered and hopeless when they began their exploits together over three months ago. He remembered, over the course of these months together, Philip coming to terms with his sexuality, Sholto slowly winning the fight against his disease, Tobias forming healthy bonds. He remembered himself laughing, smiling, and- God help him- beginning to fall in love all over again. Then there was John, continuing to suffer from his terrible nightmares but nevertheless improving in other ways.

There was so much Sherlock had never seen. All he’d ever done was cling ferociously to his own grief, his own suffering. All he’d heard from John’s confession was his own loss, his own changed life.

He fell into the black, leather chair residing by the fireplace, curling in on himself as his mind raced. It would have been so much easier to simply remain angry at John. It would permit himself to forego this self-examination, this compassion rushing forth.

He closed his eyes and behind his lids, he saw John’s tearful eyes, his shaking hands as he’d recounted that day to Sherlock. He saw John’s eyes fill with an emotion Sherlock had never experienced as he recounted what was the worst day of his life. The day Sherlock had forced him to relive to satisfy his curiosity.

Though, in truth, Sherlock did still believe he’d had the right to know. John should have told him and Sherlock deserved to know exactly how his husband had met his end. While that request still sounded reasonable to himself, he should have considered sooner how hard it would have been for John to discuss.

And there, in that quiet moment, Sherlock truly appreciated for the first time that he never could- never would- be able to understand the depth of tragedy that John suffered. That they’d all suffered, in fact. His sorrow was not lessened by this fact, but the simple fact was that his own experience with the war was not a comparable one to the others.

Tobias, who learned the cruelty of humanity in the most horrendous manner. Wiggins, whose whole life was taken from him by a bullet and a doctor who thought he was helping. Sholto, being buried by his disease because of the stress of the war until he was responsible for his own demise. Greg, who was an addict desperate to make jokes because he saw no other way to cope with what he saw. Philip, who fled to law school immediately upon returning home because he couldn’t excuse the injustice he saw. And John… John, whose survivor’s guilt was carried with him as it refused to let him rest.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, mind on fire with thoughts of them all. He’d been so foolish, so selfish.  His loss was not diminished, but he finally understood- truly understood: He'd lost a loved one. A terrible thing, of course, he couldn't deny it. But he hadn't been a soldier. 

He rose quickly, crossing to his desk and sitting down so rapidly in the creaking chair that it threatened to topple over completely. He paid no mind to it, however. Instead, he grasped desperately at the closest sheet of paper- not caring to note what was on the other side- and the nearest fountain pen, and began writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: *is knocked out*  
> Mycroft: *leans back in his chair and puts his feet up on his desk and waits for his brother to regain consciousness for Maximum Drama™*
> 
> I'm sure some of you were expecting Sherlock to remain furious for a long time. While I understand why you would think that (many stories rely on long-lasting anger for The Drama or character development and I completely get it), lack of empathy and holding grudges really isn't the point of this story. John and Sherlock have some work to do, certainly, but I've tried to paint a realistic, heartfelt picture of recovery and understanding for our boys.
> 
>  **Songs from Bandstand that can be safely listened to now:**  
>  Every single song from the beginning ([Just Like It Was Before](https://open.spotify.com/track/6v0NL99TSmW92NGIIA9x7J?si=-4j2kCesQ1-3yGYz5-wAxQ)) all the way to the song called [Everything Happens](https://open.spotify.com/track/091k8NZY50MStL6THyi9Pw?si=VB1S-sPpRjGdNmOu7OS9-A), which this chapter is based on. A whole 18 songs! I urge you all to NOT listen ahead or you shall have the upcoming plot points spoiled. However, those few of you familiar with the musical will be happy to know that my ending will be quite different... :)  
> For reference, John is based on Donny Novitski (played by Corey Cott) and Sherlock is based on Julia Trojan (played by Laura Osnes). 
> 
> P.S. to those of you that asked: my broken foot is finally healed and the boot came off yesterday. Thank you for everyone's well wishes. :)


	25. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In light of his confession the night before, John must find a way to reconcile the future he'd imagined with the one he now faces; a future without Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "hey! that's the name of the fic!" you, probably, after reading the chapter title
> 
> TW: mentions of suicidal thoughts

The intoxication of his lips and the curve of his hips beneath John’s hands were causing halos of dizzying illumination to explode behind his closed eyes. Pinning him against the cool, smooth wallpaper as he tasted the sweet skin of Sherlock’s neck, unable to resist taking bites that caused gasps of pleasure, was ecstasy beyond reason. His leg between Sherlock’s two, his hands running through his dark hair, his skin sleek with sweat was something directly removed from his wildest, most impossible dream.

John was dizzy with the smell of him, crazed by the sounds he apparently couldn't bite back, drunk from the feeling of his warm, soft skin, wild with desire to taste more of him, disbelieving in the sight before him when he snuck glances of him between kisses, and overwhelmed in every capacity by his curls, his neck, his breath.

_ There is a train: it leaves the station at a quarter after five. _

It was too much and John would never be able to get enough. He kissed and tousled and felt and experienced the beauty of him until it was the only thing he would ever do for every remaining second of his life.

Suddenly, Sherlock pushed himself off the wall, John stumbling with the unexpected break of the perfect moment. His impossibly coloured eyes stared hungrily toward him under hooded lids as he gripped John by the arms and pushed him with impatient kisses onto the bed until John lay helpless to his whims. Sherlock straddled him and kept pressure firmly on John's arms with his knees while he presented teasing kisses along his jaw.

_ And it’s direct to Cardiff General from this hell hole. _

Then he stopped- suddenly and without warning. John opened his eyes, bleary from passion, to see Sherlock’s head hanging low, his hair falling to cover his eyes.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice trembled uncertainty when, after a minute, there was no motion nor explanation for his stopping.

_ Alright, Watson. Grenade on my go! _

Slowly, too slowly, raised his head. The form above him leaned in, his hand dancing in patterns along John's chest, his face leaning closer, closer until their lips were separated by the smallest of breaths. Sherlock’s hand stopped its perpetual motion and settled over his heart and his hooded lids opened to stare into John's eyes with an infinite deepness that paralyzed him.

“John,” he whispered, his deep timber vibrating John’s insides.

“Yes?”

_ Go! _

Sherlock’s hand removed itself from his chest and in the dim light, his eyes were radiantly, brilliantly iridescent, though filled with a rage that was beyond words. “ _ I'm going to fucking kill you _ ,” he whispered with all the hatred and resentment that could exist in the world.

Before there was a second to think, to process, to react, to explain, the knife he hadn’t seen in Sherlock's hand was hilt-deep in his failing heart.

John screamed and screamed while the world spun away from him, the shape of that room falling away until there was only the sound of his own desperate panting to cement him in reality.

The crisp air of his own room, which was not mingled with the breath of Sherlock, clarified his mind as he frantically felt for a knife in his chest, looked for an unfamiliar form in his room, and tried desperately to sort out the truth of where he was or what was happening.

Heart pounding with the anxiety of unadulterated terror, it all fell into place as he noted a perfectly normal room around him: He was alone. He wasn't hurt. He had fallen asleep. It had been a dream.

A dream turned nightmare.

His throat was raw from his screams, his face wet with tears he hadn’t known he’d shed, his body weak and exhausted from lack of sleep. He’d fallen asleep for no more than an hour, which was admittedly more than he thought he would have gotten, considering...

Then, as he settled into his acceptance of where he truly was, memories of the previous night came flooding in: Sherlock, demanding the truth. Sherlock, look upon him with every horror John had ever feared. Sherlock, declaring John’s guilt before running from him.

In all the months since he’d returned home, his subconscious had never before ventured away from the solitary nightmare that had followed him into every attempted period of rest. Every night for ages now was the same: his body would demand sleep and, shortly after obliging, he would awake drenched in sweat, echoes of his shouted “ _ Get out! _ ” still reverberating in the stale air that suffocated him. He relived Victor's death every time he closed his eyes. Now, however, it seemed his mind had found another terrible way to torture him with while he slept.

Instead of trying to fool himself into thinking he could fall back asleep, John pulled his weary body out of his sweat-soaked bed. Early rays of winter sunshine meant that it was an appropriate time to go out, even if he had nowhere to go. He pulled on a pair of socks that bore holes in their soles and a pair of trousers that were too big around his hips. His hands were still slick with perspiration,  his fingers sliding repeatedly off of the metal of his suspenders until his hands were shaking from a mixture of lingering fright and a fresh wave of frustration. After deciding that his appearance would suffice for the public (he conceded after several futile efforts that there could be nothing done for his hair), he was out the door without the slightest inclination of what he was to do. Though he hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon, no thoughts of breakfast drifted across his distracted mind.

He couldn’t face the day. Yet that frequent fact had never yielded to a lack of necessity before. His feet were moving without direction, the early morning sunlight serving as guidance for other souls who did have direction. It was a strange thing to walk amongst them and be aware of the ocean that separated himself. How many of the twenty-two people within eyesight were veterans? How many had killed their best friend?  How many had fallen in love with their best friend’s husband? How many had people had experienced devastating heartbreak last night?

It couldn’t be proven, but John rather thought he was alone in his experience. And with rehearsal this afternoon…

Pushing the thought away with desperate avoidance, his feet were carrying him through a familiar doorway on his right before he consciously appreciated where he was. The stale stench of dried scotch and old wine reached his nose. He would normally shrink away from such a smell, but neither his nose nor mind rebelled against it now. Instead, he relished what the smell meant and walked intentionally toward the bar seats and ordered a triple whiskey on the rocks, hearing Greg in the back of his mind saying wisely, “ _ No ice, Johnny boy. It slows ya down, _ ” and he knew the memory would have made him smile under different circumstances.

This was not his first time in this dingy bar. Mere days after returning home from the war, he had stumbled across the place while he walked the streets at four in the morning. The door had been open, the dim, flickering lights calling him like a beacon home. His next outing had been at seven in the morning- too early, certainly, for any bar- and, somehow, the same doorway had been there to invite him in.

It was the only bar, it seemed, that was open regardless of time. Day or night, ridiculously late or ungodly early, there were bottles within its walls to ease his distress.

The bar was silent now, its one other occupant fast asleep in the booth furthest from the door. The last time he’d been in, it had been busier. The memory was just under four months old, but he recalled the time as though it was merely a story he’d once heard. Two seats to the right from where he sat presently, a stranger had asked him what division he had been and what he’d been doing for money since he got back. The words sent a shiver down his spine now just as they had then.

“ _ Well find something quick, pal. I’ve been to three funerals this month. Nobody’s talking about it because those guys came back fine a while ago _ .”

“ _ What happened? _ ”

“ _ They needed- They wanted a way to make it… stop _ .”

John understood too well. It seemed it would never stop, this pain- and he was, as always, aware that there was really only one way to make it stop.

He consumed his triple whiskey in two large gulps, noting distantly that Greg was right; the ice made the ordeal so much more difficult.

“Another- neat this time,” he asked of the bartender as he pushed the glass of ice across the sticky countertop.

* * *

Philip was eyeing him suspiciously, catching what the other had yet to notice. John kept his head down, walking to his piano silently and sitting perfectly still while the others were animated and lively. The lighthearted conversion from Sholto and Greg was difficult to drown out, but he tried very hard to do so. He didn’t want to hear the evidence of how well they were doing in light of his utter lack of improvement in four whole months.

“You alright, John?” Philip asked, leaning over the hood of the piano to ask the question covertly. 

“Yes.”

Philip looked unsure of this, his eyes narrowing and his head tilting, though John made sure to look away from his curious stare.

“John, are you-”

“I said I’m alright,” John snapped, his eyes fixating on the black keys of his piano. “Shove off.”

If Philip was offended by John’s words, he said nothing. He was certain that his friend’s eyes would be full of hurt betrayal, but John’s intentional downward stare did not pick up any physical reaction from Philip.

When the clock struck 2, John called for silence. “We’ll start with Free Now, it’s a crowd pleaser-”

“Oi, where’s Sherlock?” Greg interrupted. John was dismayed to see the same curiosity present in the faces of the rest with Wiggins and Sholto both turning to look at the door. Their curiosity meant that he couldn’t simply ignore the question.

“Not coming,” he said, words clipped and voice as steady as he could manage. “So we’ll-”

“Why not?” Greg interrupted again, louder this time and sharp eyebrows pulling together. His trumpet hung lazily in his right hand as his eyes searched John.

With a steadying breath, John looked directly into Greg’s eyes and said, monotonously, “Because he quit.”

The silence was thick, buzzing with the shocked reactions of the other five other men. Even Tobias, who continuously turned every emotion into annoyance or anger, was nothing but surprised. Wiggins was more present in his demeanour than before and- was John imagining that he looked less surprised than the rest?

“He quit?” Tobias asked, words empty as though he did not yet truly believe them.

“Yes.” It was not strictly true. Sherlock had not quit; not technically, at least. But he  would never want to see John again and therefore he knew that he would not return to the band that had been a tool of bonding for the two of them.

“Blimey,” Greg said softly. “What the hell did you do, mate?”

He knew Greg was being facetious, but the reminder of his guilt was a punch in his gut. “Nothing,” he spat too viciously. His insides were on fire, his heart shattering exponentially with every passing second.

“John,” breathed Sholto so softly, John wouldn’t have been sure it had been he who had spoken unless he’d seen his mouth move. “We can’t-”

“If we don’t have him,” interrupted Tobias whose anger was now beginning to bubble forth, “we don’t have the slimmest chance in hell of winning. We might as well quit now.”

“Well, no one’s stopping you!” John bellowed, feeling a deep shame at the sudden burning behind his eyes. He fought viciously against the sensation, willing himself to be broader, tougher, and more intimidating than he felt. “I mean it; if any of you think our combined talents mean nothing without him, you can leave right now. But I’m staying, I’m practising, I’m writing music, I’m going to London, and I’m performing- with or without you.”

The silence dragged on for what felt like years before, reluctantly, Sholto asked, professionally, “Should we change the key of Free Now? For your vocal range?”

“Yes,” John answered stiffly. He was secretly glad to no be abandoned by the rest of them, though he knew their curiosity persisted. “To B flat. Change Love Will Come and Find Me Again to A and we’ll see how that high note sounds.”

* * *

The winter day grew dark at such an early hour, John did not use the excuse to go home. Rather, he returned to the no-longer-quiet bar to drink himself into a state of numbness and, taking care not to drink enough to enter a stupor, left the small building several short hours after the sun had shed its last rays across the city.

How was he supposed to live in this world having lost everything? Was he to drink himself numb every day to simply make it through life? It worked for Greg, he supposed. Perhaps doing so would lend him a jovial attitude as it did for happy-go-lucky Greg.

Still, he was certain he would crumble from the hollowness within him. All this time, he’d known what would happen when Sherlock found out but having that foresight did not ease the pain.

It was an unfortunate side effect of his thirty-four-minute walk that, by the time he was turning the doorknob to his flat, his sensations were alarming sharp again. He should have drunk more- he would recall that for next time. 

_ Why did I even return home? _ He thought, bitterness rising within him.  _ I don’t sleep here anyway. There’s nothing here but silence and my own thoughts. _

Regretting his decision to return to this haunted flat, he trudged inside and didn’t bother to turn on the light as he made his way toward the kitchen, where he had a long-untouched bottle of cheap liquor. The silence of the flat was pressing in on his ears even as his footsteps against the wooden floor were sharp jolts of noise against his tired mind.

Grabbing the bottle (and foregoing the glasses completely) and a novel that he’d read thrice already, he returned to his still living room and sat down on the couch beside the lamp. Fixated on his book, he turned the lamp on without looking up, pulling his legs up onto the couch with the rest of him. 

“Hello, John.”

_ “Holy shit! _ ” John jumped up so violently, so quickly, his old bullet wound hurt from the rapid motion. He spilt a great deal of the cheap alcohol on the floor and his book dropped to the floor as he turned- ready to fight if needed- toward the corner of the room from which the voice had come.

The tall, familiar figure remained still, unperturbed by the violent reaction of his addressee. In the dim light of the lamp, he saw him across the room leaning against the wall, arms folded and eyes brimming with an unplaceable emotion.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, the word nearly catching in his mouth from what could have been either excitement or terror.

“Hello, John,” he said again, words short and distant, though lacking the cold hatred that he would have suspected from him.

He was shocked, his heart racing from anxiety of the unknown. It was difficult to suppress the desire to repeat the name of the man standing before him. Instead, he said the only other thing he could think to say: “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock shrugged unhelpfully, his eyes leaving John’s to stare interestedly at his shining shoes. “Sorry I missed rehearsal.”

In light of everything that occurred between them a mere 24 hours ago, it was a ludicrous thing to say. “Don’t be.”

Sherlock’s eyes lingered on his foot and when John matched the direction of his eyes, he noticed that Sherlock’s toes were anxiously moving beneath the leather of his shoes. After John’s words, a silence spread between them, uncomfortable and loaded. When he realized Sherlock would not say anything in response, he asked, “How long have you been waiting here?”

Sherlock opened his mouth before closing it, evidently deciding against whatever he’d been about to say. He removed his eyes from their fixation on his shoes and met John’s gaze again. He had to stop himself from swooning when he noticed the intoxicating hue of blue that penetrated John’s unsuspecting heart.

“Long enough to wonder if something had happened to you,” Sherlock said finally.

The wild thoughts that had wondered if Sherlock had come here to hurt him were further tamed with every passing second.

“And why,” he tried again, “did you come?”

“To apologize.”

“To-  _ what _ ?” The proclamation was so unexpected, he began to wonder if this was not perhaps another dream. Perhaps he was still in the bar, his cheek resting on the filthy countertop after having been laid to rest by a pinch too much alcohol while his mind wandered to fantasies of Sherlock’s forgiveness.

“I’m here to apologize,” Sherlock repeated, his voice stronger now, full of his intention. “I- I cannot say that I am okay with the events that occurred that day in the Solomon Islands. I cannot even say with certainty whether I will ever be okay with the whole of it…” He trailed off then, his eyes breaking from John’s to stare absently at the couch behind him. One hand moved unthinkingly to the lapel of his woollen jacket. “But blaming you- tell you it was your fault… that was wrong.”

“No.” There was a knife in his stomach, twisting with unrelenting cruelty. “No, you were right to do it. I  _ am _ guilty, Sherlock. I am wholly to blame and you should-”

“It is exactly for that reason,” he interrupted, voice soft in contrast of John’s elevating tone and eyes ablaze with sincerity when they returned to him, “that I am here to apologize.” There must have been a lack of understanding on John’s face for Sherlock continued, soft and timid, “There was so much I didn’t see, John. And for that… I am truly sorry.”

The words should have caused a rush of relief, of unspeakable euphoria within his heart. He should have crumbled internally from the elation of this unexpected forgiveness, this new opportunity of friendship with the man whom he so desperately wanted.

Instead, he felt cold and confused, his reaction belied from expectation. 

“No,” he choked out through the thicket of emotions he didn’t understand. Why was he rebelling against this unprecedented forgiveness? “No, that’s not-  _ No _ .”

“A compelling argument, I’m sure.”

“ _ No _ ,” John insisted, a confusing frustration rearing its head more stubbornly now. He began to pace without thinking. “No, you can’t be  _ sorry _ . You can’t forgive me. I’m  _ guilty _ , Sherlock. I killed him. And it is not up for debate, okay? To forgive me is foolish and- and-”

“And?”

“ _ And I don’t deserve it _ !”

The shout reverberated in the air between them, John breathing heavily by the door, fighting the urge to run, and Sherlock, standing up straight now and looking at John in a manner that he did not care to assess. He broke the gaze, though he felt Sherlock’s stare endure steadfastly upon him. 

There was only the sound of John’s heaving chest and, within his own mind, the screaming desire to claw his chest out to relieve the pain swelling within it. He was to blame for so much- not just for his own misery in losing a friend, but in tearing Sherlock apart from his loving husband, his whole life thrown off track. It was his fault, his fault, his fault-

“To apologize is but only one reason I came here,” Sherlock said as though there had been no interruption since he’d last spoken. “I also came to give you this.”

Out of a pocket that lived inside his jacket, his long fingers tenderly removed a small packet of papers, folded in half so that there was no inclination of what he was being handed. When he made no move to retrieve the papers, Sherlock took four short strides and placed the papers in John’s reluctant free hand before backing away by one rather large step.

Wordlessly, he placed the bottle of alcohol in his other hand on the floor, forgetting its existence the moment it was out of his grip. He unfolded the pages and glanced down and at first, only a few, randoms words penetrated his mind before a jolt of shock piqued his interest.

> _ Tobias learned to survive means you never trust- _

His mouth was as dry as the parchment he held, his heart simultaneously racing and stopping completely. “What is this?”

“It’s a song.” Sherlock waited a moment, perhaps to see if John would look up, which he didn’t. “It’s for you- all of you.”

“Why?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh and made to move forward but stopped as though he thought better of the motion. “Like I said… there is so much I didn’t see before. All I ever saw was six men rather worse off for their experiences, but otherwise the same as myself.”

“I realized,” he continued, “that my own loss is not comparable with the experience of war you all endured. I’ve been thinking myself a victim of war just as you are, as Sholto is, as you all are. That was… immeasurably foolish on my part. My loss was great, I will not deny it. But the trauma I endured cannot hold a candle to what you experienced… I see that now.

“My life was altered from the war. But it continued afterwards. I changed, but I continued on. After the grief passed, I was able to find the soul of that man I used to be, though my circumstances were now different. You, Greg, Wiggins, Sholto, Tobias, and Philip… your lives are not even a shadow of what they used to be because they cannot be. What you all experienced left invisible scars that I never noticed for reasons thoroughly ignorant and selfish. When I realized how much I had seen but failed to understand, I wrote this song for you, for myself, and for every individual who has ever neglected to sympathize with the tragic impact war has had on every veteran who served.”

Wordlessly, John’s eyes fell to the beginning of the song, reading in his head the beautiful music to accompany the lyrics beneath:

> “ _ Wiggins made it home- most of him at least.  _
> 
> _ Had three operations but the pain has not decreased. _
> 
> _ Tobias learned to survive means you never trust. _
> 
> _ Once you’ve seen the worst in man then how do you adjust? _
> 
> _ Greg, he cracks a joke, claims to be alright _ -”

The page ended there and John possessed neither the strength nor the will to continue forth. He did not want to know which terrible truth Sherlock had noticed of Greg. He flipped randomly to the fourth page, seeing at the top, the words:

> “ _ And I stand here helpless, _
> 
> _ my arms extended _
> 
> _ knowing full well, darling,  _
> 
> _ your war is not ended.  _
> 
> _ Welcome home, our boys. _
> 
> _ Welcome home, my love. _
> 
> _ Welcome home, our husbands. _
> 
> _ Welcome Home _ .”

His heart was pumping with alarming intention. Although he wasn’t aware of it, he took one step closer to Sherlock, his entire body releasing its tension as he read and absorbed the words so beautifully written by a man who he’d been certain would want him dead. He flipped the pages back and forth, reading every passage out of order and feeling himself coming undone with every beautiful line. Sherlock’s observations and consequent commentary on them all was beautiful poetry, raw and real. When he finally read what Sherlock wrote of him, he was certain his heart would never work properly again.

“Sherlock,” he breathed without any certainty of what he wanted to say to the brilliant man. His mouth was dry, his hands trembling. “This is…”

“Yes?” he whispered, and he too took one step closer to John’s quiet admiration until either of them could have heard the other’s racing heartbeat if they’d tried.

The shameful burning sensation made itself known once again behind his eyes, the words in his hands placating every stubborn quarrel he’d held against Sherlock’s full forgiveness. This- this stunning expression of understanding, this proof of a miraculous exoneration was more than he could have imagined. “This is beautiful. But it could never-”

“I know. It could never be performed. It addresses everything the public would like to ignore. But I didn’t write it to perform. I wrote it for you. For all of you, if you’d like to share it.” John looked up, finally, into the angular face of Sherlock, inches from his own and already looking down into John’s amazed expression. Then, in a whisper that brushed air against John’s forehead, he said, “It wasn’t your fault, John.”

“But-”

“No.” It was barely a breath yet it knocked John protests aside completely. “You saw what I wrote,” and he gently tapped the pages in John’s hands, “I know you’re looking for absolution. This is it. You are not guilty of the crime you believe yourself guilty of. And nor would Victor. He would never have wanted this guilt for you.”

So close to Sherlock’s comforting gaze, John succumbed to the relieved grief so overwhelming within himself and pressed his forehead without question into the woolen jacket, crying openly and repressing the urge to shudder when, three seconds later, he felt Sherlock’s hands on the small of his back, the other on the back of his neck, and his soft cheek resting carefully on top of his hair as he cried without shame into his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the song's lyrics is intentionally not included. I urge you **not to go looking it up** , however, for reasons that will eventually be evident later on. :)
> 
> As some (many?) of you already know, this update took so long because my computer (specifically, my hard drive) shattered mere days after publishing the last chapter. Since I am wholly unable to tolerate writing on my phone, I wasn't able to write until just a few days ago. Thank you all for your patience! <3

**Author's Note:**

> [For an ongoing timeline of when the events of this fic take place, please click here.](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com/post/183058254500/welcome-home-timeline)  
> (this post is temporarily private while I organize the order of events for upcoming chapters.)  
> [For an ongoing list of character descriptions, please click here.](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com/post/182407479030/master-list-of-welcome-home-characters)  
> [For an ongoing catalogue of the use of the number "97" in this fic, please click here.](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com/post/183058667820/ongoing-list-of-97-in-welcome-home)  
> [To read an explicit pre-WWII Viclock one shot I wrote, click here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662877)  
> [Someone asked me why I write Greg as such a heart throb. This is why.](https://itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com/post/182491217850/why-do-you-write-lestrade-as-a-heartthrob-in-your)


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